Damned and Deranged: A SupernaturalWWE Crossover
by ringaroundtherollins
Summary: After a spell cast by a coven of novice witches goes awry, Dean Winchester and Dean Ambrose find themselves in each other's bodies. Half a country apart and suddenly living each other's crazy existences, the boys must work quick to hunt down the mystic beings responsible: and switch back before it's too late. ON HIATUS SORRY :(
1. Chapter 1: Hunting Season

**Hey guys. So this might be a really bizarre concept, but as a devout fan of both Supernatural and the WWE, I thought it would be fun to write my very first crossover fic! Dean Ambrose and Dean Winchester trading bodies via witch's spell seemed like an idea both amusing and intriguing. I could take it all sorts of directions, and I'm stoked about it. Even if nobody else likes the idea...but I can't be the only one out there who loves both shows, right? I also tried to make it broad, so that audiences from both fanbases could enjoy it without being too entirely aware of the other by the detail. Save that kinda crazy obsession for someone like me. :P Here's the prologue, and the first couple of chapters for you. It's experimental. And so far, I'm having fun with it. Let me know what you think. :)**

* * *

 **Portland, Maine**

Dean Winchester blinked away his exhaustion and pressed his back against the brick exterior. After five or six hours of driving, questioning witnesses and his brother Sam relaying information in his ear from recent news articles, they'd finally tracked down these sons of bitches. Study time was over. Time to work.

Mist of the early morning clung in particles to his face, blending with the sweat. It was bracing out—no warmer than fifty degrees—yet Dean felt muggy beneath his leather jacket and plaid button-up. Beside him, Sam stood tall, tired, and determined. The sooner they could gank these occult bastards and ditch this town, the better. Dean kept himself going with thoughts of what was to follow this hunt: long shower, tall glass of beer, ten-hour nap. He'd earned it. Both of them had.

Dean dared to squint down the alley, just outside a dowdy motel where these freaks were known to hang out and practice their sorcery, under the guise of a band of homeless folks whom others wouldn't pay much attention to. In a way, it was a clever disguise. On the other hand, the Winchesters were a bit more clever.

As expected, the small party was there, huddling over what could have been a simple fire in a garbage canister—or the brewing and globule of another spell. As far as the brothers knew, this coven had yet to kill anyone, but several events in town leading to property damage and nonfatal casualties all pointed back to this group.

For one reason or another, they had to be stopped.

Dean nodded back at Sam, who readied his gun, loaded with hollow-tip bullets filled with the potion from the witch-killing spell. He was anxious to give these a try, if it came down to it. First came a little roughing up, a little interrogation. Five witches against two Winchesters? No problem.

" _On my count,_ " Dean mouthed to Sam, lifting a hand. " _One…two…_ "

" _Exponere_!" screamed a voice from down the alley.

Suddenly Dean was lifted into the air and flung into the brick wall within the alley. His body collapsed to the hard ground, hands releasing his gun.

"Dean!" Sam shouted. He raised his weapon to fire, but he too was hit with the spell and smacked against the wall headfirst. He slumped to the ground with a groan, blurry vision barely making out the image of the witches' approach.

"Good work, Donnie," a redheaded girl praised the dark-skinned male with dreadlocks. He elevated a trembling hand towards Sam, and invisible fingers wound tight around his throat.

"Thought you could sneak up on us, eh?" Donnie said with a chuckle. "Why don't you tell me who you are before I choke the life out of you?"

No sense in lying. Sam and Dean both had guns, weapons that had been stripped away out of reach by the magic propelling. "Hunters," Sam snarled. "Came to…stop you from…hurting people…"

Donnie cocked an eyebrow. "Hurting people? We're not doing this to hurt people. We're in this for us—nobody else."

"You should have thought about that before you set the fire on Franklin Street," Sam grunted. He grimaced as Donnie tightened the unseen clutch on his throat.

"H-how'd you know th-that was us?" a timid brunette girl behind Donnie stammered. Donnie and the redhead girl glowered at her, and she shrank back behind him even further.

"That was an _accident_ ," the redhead proclaimed. "Some of us are getting better at this. Some of us…" She scowled towards the brunette again. "Still need a little practice."

The small girl buried her face in her hands.

"Lay off her, Katie," a blond boy barked from Donnie's other side. The redhead—Katie, evidently—rolled her eyes.

Sam noticed Dean was beginning to stir. He was sprawled behind the coven enclosing Sam, unable to be seen if he moved slowly enough.

"What are you guys, new?" Sam asked, buying time for Dean to gain back his balance, his awareness. "Amateur hour over here?"

"We're not amateurs!" Katie screamed, also thrusting a hand in the air. Sam's vision was fading. He couldn't even generate enough air from his lungs to cough against the force. "After all, practice makes perfect. And who better to serve as training dummies than two hunting dummies?"

Dean rolled over. His eyes swelled in their sockets at the sight of his brother losing consciousness. He glanced over and saw his gun was just a few yards away. If they didn't notice him…if he could reach it in time…

"Thought you said you weren't in this to hurt people," Sam managed to utter. Stars centralized in his sight. "Does that make you amateurs _and_ liars?"

Katie simpered. "Oh, I can prove well enough that I'm no novice. Starting by tearing your friend's skin right off his skull…"

Dean went for it. He dove for the gun, gathered it into his strong hands, and fired at whatever the gun happened to be pointing at. A bullet zoomed through one of Donnie's dreadlocks and successfully lodged itself in the forehead of one of the male witches.

"Bryan!" the brunette girl screamed.

At least the bullets worked.

Dean fired the gun again, dropping another witch. He didn't care what their motives were; they'd all die now.

Donnie released his grip on Sam.

Sam gulped down a sweet breath of air.

Donnie turned to Dean. Dean aimed the gun right at him.

" _Ire ad aliam personam_!" the blond male cried out quickly, shoving both hands in Dean's direction.

The alleyway lit up white, bright white, heavenly white. Dean closed his eyes to preserve his eyesight. The last thing he heard before blacking out amidst the loud brightness was Sam screaming his name. "Dean! DEAN!"


	2. Chapter 2: Hotel Hell

It was dark when he awoke, where he awoke. Dark and dry.

Where the hell was it?

Dean opened his eyes to nothing. His head was killing him. Why couldn't he see? Was he blind?

The air was warm around him. Suffocating. The surface he lay on was soft, squishy. A bed? Was he under a blanket?

Ah. No wonder he couldn't breathe. No wonder it was so warm.

Dean kicked the blanket off of him, sat up, and looked around as much as his head would allow without too much pain. He was in a rather nice hotel room, much more embellished than the ones he and Sam usually stayed in. Alpine furnishings, elegant décor, a fireplace, flat-panel TV, DVD player.

Something wasn't right here.

And where was Sam?

Mind still gleaning bits and pieces of memory from the incident in the alley—whatever that had been—Dean rolled off the bed and stumbled towards the bathroom. His hand slapped the wall in search of a light switch, but the lighting system was automatic. Warm lights lit the marble bathroom to life, revealing a fluffy robe hanging on the back of the door, a TV— _seriously, who the hell needs a TV in the damn bathroom_? Dean thought—a crystal counter lined with amenities, and an extensive wall-to-wall mirror.

Dean blinked at the shirtless reflection in the mirror. The man staring back at him was not him.

It was someone else.

Dean's mouth fell open, lips parting—and the reflection's lips parted in sync.

He lifted a hand to his cheek. The reflection mimicked him.

It _was_ him…yet…it wasn't.

The reflection had tired blue eyes and straggly dirty blond hair that stuck up in various directions. He stood at six-four, a good three inches over Dean's height. This guy had thick arms, defined pectorals and less carved ab muscles than Dean had. He still _looked_ good, that couldn't be denied, yet…

Who was this?

Who was he?

"What the hell?" Dean said, the difference in voice surprising him. He cleared his throat, pressed his hands against the counter, and leaned closer to the mirror. "What. The. Hell."

Was this the witches' doing? The spell that the douche bag had cast on him in the alley…was this the end result?

He was certain of it.

"Crap," Dean said, head hanging. Long hair he was not used to having fell over his eyes. He shoved it away.

He had to get into contact with Sam. If he was in this stranger's body, who knew how the stranger was acting in his—Dean Winchester's?

Someone knocked on the hotel room door.

Dean froze. Who could that be?

Instinctively he glimpsed towards the nightstand where he stashed his gun during the night. No sign of it anywhere. Of course.

The individual knocked again. "Dean?" a voice boomed.

 _Wait. Did he just call me Dean_?

Trying to convince himself this was an environment where he didn't need to be armed with his weapon, Dean unfastened the gold chain lock and heaved the big door open.

The voice belonged to a brawny, strapping man with broad arms and lengthy black hair sweeping over his wide shoulders. "Whoa," Dean couldn't help but say aloud. Even if this body he currently possessed (was that the right word? Such a negative connotation with that word…he opted for _controlled_ instead) was about the same height as this man's, Dean wasn't used to burly hunks looking at him like this. Looking at him at _all_.

"Morning," he said. "You alright? You look out of it."

"Me? Yeah, yeah, I'm perfect." Lying came easy to Dean, even in a different figure. In a different dimension? Maybe not. This was still earth, he was sure of it. Reality was still trying to catch up to him. "How are _you_?"

"Ready for tonight. What about you?"

Dean bobbed his head. "Oh, yeah, sure. Tonight. The big, uh…the big thing. The thing that's going on. I've been looking forward to it forever now." What else was he supposed to say, the truth? Not until Dean could figure it all out for himself. _Then_ perhaps spring it onto someone who had nothing to do with his current situation, or even knew who he truly was.

 _How am I handling this so well? My life is pretty screwed up if I can adjust to this kinda wonky situation in two shakes_.

The man stared at him curiously. Dean just smiled. _Please go away now so I can figure out what to do next_.

"Dean! Roman!"

Dean? There was that name again, _his_ name. It came from a tall, lean man with a nearly smooth shaved head, sporting a tight black shirt with the letters RKO in the center, a hissing snake twisting behind the K.

 _RKO. I've heard that before, I think. He looks kinda familiar, too. But where…_?

"You guys heading out?" he asked, slinging a stuffed duffle bag over his shoulder.

"Yeah, our flight's at ten," Roman answered—if Dean was still _Dean,_ then this guy must have been Roman. But how did they know he was Dean?

Dean just nodded again. Smile and nod. The way out of any situation. "Mhmm," he managed. His throat was dry. He needed water. And a phone.

"Ready for your match against Owens tonight, Ambrose?" RKO asked, giving Dean's shoulders a few quick punches. Light as they were, they still hurt. Dean rubbed his shoulder where RKO had slugged him.

"Ow. You mind?"

RKO just chuckled. "Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to 'injure' you before your big fight." He thumped Dean's shoulder again, and Dean swallowed another grunt—and a profanity.

Match? _Fight_? Who the hell was Owens? And did he just say _Ambrose_ now? Dean thought he had a handle on this situation, but now new information was presenting itself much faster than he could take it in and comprehend it all. He felt dizzy again. The pain in his head was back with a vengeance.

"Oh, he's ready," Roman said. "The question isn't with Dean—it's with Owens. Whether or not he'll actually show up."

"Oh, he'll show up," RKO stated. "Whether or not he sticks _around_ —that's the _real_ question."

"Walk, Owens, walk." Roman laughed.

"Better not walk. If anyone deserves that Intercontinental Championship, it's our boy Ambrose here." RKO knocked Dean's shoulder again, targeting the area that was most likely bruising now thanks to him. Dean jerked away and shouted, "Hey, would you _knock it off_!?"

RKO's face blanched. He lifted two hands, surrendering. "Alright, Dean, take it easy. I was just messing around. Sorry."

So he was Dean.

But he wasn't…Dean.

Not Dean Winchester.

Dean…Ambrose?

"Uh, we'll see you in Miami," Roman said to RKO, dismissing the awkward air.

"Wait, _Miami_?" Dean asked, feeling his jaw unhinging once again. "Where the hell are we now?"

"Columbus?" Roman said, brows knitting.

"Did you get smashed last night or something, Ambrose?" RKO asked.

"Kinda, yeah," Dean said. He wondered if he could mean it.

RKO chuckled in sympathy. "Can't say I judge you. Or even blame you. Big night tonight. But no more screwing around. We've got work to do, so let's go." He sauntered down the hall. "See you boys in the Sunshine State! Home sweet home, right, Romie?"

"Pretty close," Roman said. He turned his attention back to Dean, who felt like passing out. He leaned against the doorway with one sturdy arm. "Hey. You sure you're alright?" He touched Dean's shoulder comfortingly, not in the pain-inflicting way RKO had been on him.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," Dean said, partly to Roman, partly to himself.

"Okay. If you need anything, let me know. Whatever it is. You've got it."

Whoever this Roman guy was, he really cared a lot about whoever this Dean Ambrose guy was. "Thanks. I'm just gonna…shower. Try to gather my thoughts. Get ready for my…fight tonight." _Which probably ain't happening._

"Don't worry about Owens. He's all talk. Quick wit and a cocky attitude ain't gonna protect his ass in the ring, know what I mean?"

"Ring?" _Does he mean, like, a wrestling ring_?

Dean felt lightning strike his brain. Match. Fight. Ring.

 _Am I a WRESTLER_?

"Damn, you are really out of it, brother," Roman said. "Here. Let me make you some coffee. It'll help." He tried to move into the hotel room, but Dean held up his beefy arm.

"Uh, that won't be necessary, R-Roman." _Weird name_. "I appreciate it, though. I'll pack up and be ready on my own in no time."

"Alright, if you insist. I'll see you downstairs soon, alright?"

Dean held a thumb up. "Sure thing."

Roman left him alone. Dean leaned against the door until it clicked shut behind him. He closed his eyes and cast out a breath, only using a couple of seconds to calm himself down.

 _I gotta get out of here and back to Sammy_.


	3. Chapter 3: Man In The Mirror

A voice was calling to him. Who was it? Roman? No, not gruff enough. But the voice knew him by name.

"Dean? Dean. Hey, Dean, come on…wake up, Dean…"

Stirring awake, Dean Ambrose moaned about the pain in his head, back and ribcage. Why was he so sore? His match on WWE Live last night hadn't been too miserable…

The moan led to irritation in his throat, and he coughed. Two arms pitched under his, and he was lifted to a sitting position.

Dean's eyes fluttered as his vision returned to him. He wasn't alone. The voice. The guy holding him up, tending to him. Still unfamiliar. Dean's frame was wobbly.

"Hey. You with me?"

Dean studied the man checking up on him. Long brown hair, matching colored eyes. Tall, very tall, even from this squatted position on the ground…the ground…outside, in a smelly alley somewhere with moisture in the air, _freezing_ outside…why was he _outside_?

He'd fallen asleep in his hotel room alone. From what he could remember.

"Ah," Dean said. His voice was foreign, too. Maybe he was getting sick.

Maybe he finally cracked and lost his marbles completely.

"You're alright." The tall man was kind, gentle. "Bastards got away after they did…whatever it is they did to you."

"Wh-who are you?" Dean queried, able at last. _God, my voice is low. Must be up against one hell of a cold_.

His brown eyes diminished in color and spirit. "Oh, no. Please don't tell me that spell wiped your memory."

"Spell? What spell?"

His head flopped towards the ground. His hand remained on Dean's shoulder. When he looked up again, the color was back in his eyes, but the spirit remained truant.

"Okay. This is gonna sound crazy, but I need you to listen very carefully, okay?"

"Okay?" Dean was ready for an explanation. Any explanation.

"My name is Sam Winchester. I'm your brother. Your name is Dean."

"I know I'm Dean. But you're not my brother."

Sam mashed his quivering lips together. "Yeah, I am. Trust me."

"Dude, I'm sorry, but you're not. I'm not a…Winchester. I'm Dean Ambrose."

Sam tipped his head like an intrigued puppy. "The pro wrestler, Dean Ambrose?"

"Yeah, you've heard of me?" Dean was relieved for the recognition.

"Uh, yeah, here and there. Once or twice. I catch an episode of Raw every so often, but…you—I mean, my brother doesn't. So it's kinda weird that the spell would make you think you're Dean Ambrose…"

"I _am_ Dean Ambrose!" Dean shoved off the ground. His jeans were wet beneath from the cold, damp concrete of the alley. "I am a WWE Superstar! I was born on December 7th. I'm twenty-nine years old. I was training to be a wrestler from the age of eighteen. I'm a former member of the Shield. And _what the hell is up with my voice_!?" His throat wasn't hurting, not much except for the chill in the air taking a slight toll. Maybe he _wasn't_ sick.

Sam stared at him in wonder.

Dean wanted to warm up. He was wearing a leather jacket, one that resembled his own enough to where he didn't question it, but it wasn't helping much against the inclement atmosphere.

"Dean—" Sam tried, but Dean spun around and moved out of the alley. He heard Sam's footsteps shuffling behind him. He hated the ditch the guy who'd woken him up from wherever the hell he was, however he got there in the first place…but this was weird and he didn't like it. It took a lot to make Dean Ambrose feel weird.

"What happened last night?" Dean asked himself aloud. Several passersby shot him concerning looks which he disregarded. "Did I drink? Did I pass out? I was in my hotel room, I remember that. Come on, Ambrose, think, think, think—"

Dean passed by a long glass window to a clothing store. He went rigid, watching a guy who looked nothing like him stare right back at him.

"Wha—" Dean put a hand to the glass, then to his face. "What! _What_!? What is that!? _Who is that_!? _That's not me_!"

Sam sprinted to Dean's side, trying to contain him in his arms, but Dean was defying the hold, lurching in hysterics.

"Yes, it is, Dean, please, just listen to me, calm down…"

"DON'T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!" Dean screamed. Stares were unavoidable. Sam tried to smile pathetically at all who paused in their morning routine to contemplate the scenario. "What happened to me!? Why am I that!? Why do I look like that!? _Who am I_!?"

"Dean!" Sam screamed in his face.

"WHO AM I!?" Dean shouted back.

" _Relax_! We can figure this out, but you need to _chill_!"

Dean took each breath in sharp and cavernous. It was making him lightheaded and delirious, if he hadn't already reached that state. "What…what the fuck's…going on?"

"I can explain everything, okay? But let's get you out of this rain." Sam secured Dean's arm underneath his and towed him down the sidewalk.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Our—my brother's and my motel room. We're gonna get this all figured out, okay?"

"O-okay."

"You calm now?"

"Kinda. Yeah." His stomach was still in knots.

"I know this is really confusing, but I get to deal with similar crap on a daily basis. Trust me. We'll get this all figured out."

Somehow Dean was able to trust him. There was just something about Sam that made it easy.

* * *

Ambrose sat at the edge of a bed in a drabby motel room. It wasn't much better than being stranded outside in the rain, but at least he was dry now. Sam had handed him a frayed towel and a change of clothes. Dean couldn't help but check out his—Dean Winchester's—figure in the stained bathroom mirror. Guy worked out. Guy was in shape. He had a pentagram tattooed on his chest. Dean wondered what that was about. Was the guy a satanist? In a cult?

"Well, 'you' are not answering your phone," Sam said with a sigh, device dangling from his fingers. "I tried three times. You sure you have the number right?"

"I know my own phone number," Dean huffed. "Try it again."

"Oo-kay." Sam began to dial again.

Dean thought of something else. He hopped off the bed. "Wait. Try Roman instead."

"Roman?"

"He's my buddy. He's almost always with me."

"Alright, give me his number."

Dean rambled off the correct digits from memory. Sam put the phone to his ear and waited.

"Hello?" Roman answered.

"Hi, is this, uh, Roman?"

"Who's this?"

"Uh, my name is Sam Winchester. I was wondering if I could talk to Dean Ambrose."

 _This is nuts_ , Dean thought, folding his arms over his chest, leaning from side to side.

"And you're who?" Roman questioned.

"Sam Winchester. We go way back. He'll know who I am. Just say my name."

A long pause. Sam heard some mumbling in the background.

"Put it on speaker," Dean mouthed to him. Sam obeyed.

A familiar voice—scary familiar, one that Dean had complications just hearing from someone else—spoke into the phone, "Sammy?"

"Dean?"

"Thank God. I've been trying to get in touch with you, but it's freakin' crazy over here. Haven't had any time to myself. It's been running around all morning."

 _Yep. That's my life_ , Dean thought.

"Where are you?" Sam asked.

"Columbus," Dean Ambrose said, at the same time Winchester blurted, "Freakin' Columbus, man. I take it you're more or less aware of what happened to me?"

"Yeah. I think I have an idea about that."

"The witches?"

"Spell gone awry."

"How do you know it went awry?"

"They were inexperienced witches who acted in panic. They probably had no idea what they were doing, or even saying. Who intentionally pulls a spell out of the air to swap two bodies?"

"Whatever their motives were, this sucks. And we need to fix it."

"I agree," Ambrose said.

"Wait, is that him…or me, I guess? God, I have a headache from this crap."

Sam lifted the phone to Ambrose. Ambrose snatched it, leaving the call on Speaker mode so Sam could hear it all.

"So you're Dean Winchester?" Ambrose asked.

"And you're Dean Ambrose," Winchester stated.

"Yup. Welcome to my crazy life."

"With all due respect, I deal with enough insanity by the day. I really don't need all this, too."

"I hear you."

"My brother fill you in on what's happening?"

"Yeah, I keep hearing the words 'spell' and 'witches' and 'magic' and honestly, it's starting to bum me out. What kind of mess is your life? _Magic_? The paranormal? Really?"

"Yeah, that's our lives. It sucks, but we deal with it. Sometimes by choice. Sometimes because, well, that's just the way we were programmed, I guess."

"Seriously. The paranormal? Sam tried to tell me you guys are 'hunters.' You fight ghosts and monsters, and _witches_?"

"Pretty much."

"You guys know all that crap isn't real, right?"

"Oh, and what _you_ do is real?"

Ambrose's nostrils flared. "As a matter of fact, it is. I work hard at what I do."

"So do I."

"Is he always this big of a dick?" Ambrose asked, looking to Sam. Sam could only chuckle softly.

"Hey, listen up, Ambrose, you look at yourself in the mirror and give me an explanation that _isn't_ supernatural for what happened to us. Where you're at. Huh? Can you do that for me, _Dean_?"

"Look, I don't know _what_ the hell's going on, but if Sam trusts you, and I trust Sam, then…I don't know. Don't have a choice but to hop along for the ride."

"Just sit tight and let him take the reigns, okay? He knows what he's doing."

Speaking of Reigns… "So you're with Roman?" That was good. At least Ambrose's body, currently dominated by Dean Winchester, wasn't stranded somewhere far away from any help, on either end.

"Yeah. We're at the airport right now. In fact, I think he's waving me over…yeah…he's telling me I gotta go…flight's boarding in a few."

"Flight…oh, shit, _no_. Miami. Raw! _Shit_ , why did this have to happen on a Monday?" Dean sneered at another thought. "My match against Owens is tonight." He blinked, another devastating thought surfacing. "Title match! God fucking _dammit_!" He turned around and rattled the wall with a shaking fist. His hand moved naturally to shove hair from his eyes, but of course, there was none in his face. "Dean, you can't go into that match, alright? No matter what, _do not fight for me_."

"Hey, you don't need to worry about that. No way in hell they can put me in a ring. I ain't fighting anyone."

"Good. It's a very important match to me. And I doubt we'll get all this shit figured out by the time it starts."

"I'll dodge it at all costs. That was already the plan."

"Thank you," Ambrose breathed. He leaned against the wall. Sam didn't seem startled by his outburst. Perhaps he was used to seeing it…from his brother? Or simply used to seeing startling things so much that they had no effect on him anymore?

"Seriously, gotta go, though. I'll call you when we land, and we'll work something out."

"Okay. And hey, stick close to Roman's side. He's my best friend. He'll look out for you."

"Got it. Call you in a few hours."

Dean weakly handed Sam's phone back over to him. He fell like a lump onto the bed. It physically hurt him to be here, think of all that was actually happening…

"You said you deal with similar crap to this on a daily basis?" he asked.

"Yep," Sam said, almost like he regretted it.

"You guys are even crazier than I am."


	4. Chapter 4: Faceoff

_Forgot how much I hate flying._

Dean was a trembling mess. That was made clear when he missed the seatbelt latch three times before finally buckling it securely. He pressed his head against the seat and took each breath in like a shot of whiskey: down and quick.

"Something's wrong," Roman said beside him. "You're freaking out."

 _Yeah, thanks for noticing_. "It's just been a while since—" Dean stopped mid-sentence. Maybe it had been years since Dean _Winchester_ travelled on a plane, but Dean _Ambrose_ was apparently used to frequent flying. "Since, uh, since I drank that much."

Roman bobbed his head. "So you did get drunk."

"Yeah. Minibar. I don't know, I guess I just got nervous about tonight. I know that never happens to me, but something just…didn't feel right. Felt really nervous about my…match. And I wanted to drink alone, because I didn't want you to worry about me."

Roman cocked a smile. "Of course I'm gonna worry about you, especially if you're hiding away like that. We could have worked something out. Gone for a run. Anything to take your mind off it."

"Well, now it's all I can think about." Dean hated lying to Roman. He felt Ambrose and this guy weren't the type to keep secrets from one another. _Not like me and Sam_ , something told him, and his mind blackened from the guilt of it.

"You'll do great, Dean. It's like Randy said. Maybe he won't even show up."

"Randy?" Ah. That must have been RKO. "Right. He knows what he's talking about. He's a great…wrestler. I know that about him."

Roman's head bobbed again, trying to follow along with the prattling. "Right."

"I'll be fine, Roman. Don't worry about me." _Not fighting tonight, but yeah, should be fine_. Maybe Sam could track down the witches and reverse this Freaky Friday spell before Dean had to step into the ring. Then Ambrose could have his time with this Owens character, and Winchester would be back in his awesome, screwed-up existence as a hunter.

He had to chuckle inwardly at the idea. He didn't have that kind of luck, no matter whose life he was living.

What should have been just under a three-hour flight felt like seven or eight. In times of turbulence, Dean felt Roman grab his arm when he started to shake. Roman was a caring friend, a devoted individual. Dean fancied himself a people-reader, but Roman, he had figured out easier than _If You Give a Mouse a Cookie_. A hard worker. Dedicated. Purpose-driven. But he could sometimes put others above his own needs, something that looked nice on the outside but could really bite you in the ass eventually.

He wasn't vulnerable, just…straightforward.

When the plane landed and the pilot read off the time and temperature outside, Dean released a breath he felt he'd been holding the entire flight. "Still feel sick?" Roman asked beside him.

"Nah. I feel a little better. Thanks for watching out for me."

"Of course. We're brothers."

 _Brothers_? Dean found it hard to believe. Genetically, anyway. Dean Ambrose and Roman Reigns looked nothing a lot. Perhaps he meant it in a different sense. Family. Close. They loved the hell out of each other.

Dean could relate in a couple of very specific ways.

 _Airports are a bitch_.

It took nearly an hour to get out of the damn place. Dean was able to use his fake hangover to share a rental car with Roman, who drove them to the Hotel Beaux Arts, which according to Roman was only a six-minute drive from American Airlines Arena, where Raw would be taped that night. Dean had a hard time processing all the information, so he nodded along to every word.

Much like the last place, Hotel Beaux Arts was ten times as costly and a hundred-thousand times bigger than any cheap holes he and Sammy ever boarded in. Not that he had time to appreciate the grandeur. No sooner were they checked in than were they back in the car on the way to the arena.

 _Match is coming up pretty quick and I need to bail ASAP_.

"Uh, Roman?" Dean tried inside the arena. They'd entered through a side door. Crowd were already gathering in crooked lines around the front of the stadium. The air was dense with body odor and the day's heat.

"What's up?" Roman seemed to have an idea of where they were going.

"I don't think I can fight tonight."

Roman's eyebrow curved. "You don't?"

 _Just buy it. Just believe me. You trust this guy, right_? "No. I really don't. I dunno, something is just…off in me. Like I got the yips or something. I just have this aching feeling that if I fight tonight, I ain't gonna make it out okay. I'll lose."

Roman rounded his steps to a halt, turning to face him. "You're serious."

"Unfortunately."

"This isn't you. This is…it can't even be the alcohol talking. Dean, what's going on?"

"I'm just not feeling like…myself today." _God, I want to punch myself in the face for how lame that is_.

"Sick still?"

"I guess—"

"Dean, something's going on. Don't tell me it's the booze. Don't tell me you're sick unless it's the truth. We're family, dude. You know me better than I know myself. And I'd like to think I know you pretty well, too. So just tell me what's going on." He was firm yet altruistic.

But he couldn't handle the truth. No way.

"Roman, I mean it when I say I'm not _myself_ today. I can't—"

"Well, well, well. Look who finally showed up to the party."

A robust man with spiked brown hair, matching beard and narrow eyes ambled towards Roman and Dean. A white and gold belt was draped over his shoulder. He wore a black muscle shirt with torn sleeves and the letters "KO" on the chest like the Superman symbol. Dean made a face. KO. Kevin Owens?

This is the guy he was supposed to fight?

 _Nope. No, no, no, no way in hell._

Roman folded his arms over his chest. "No jazz before the match, Owens. You know the rules."

Yep. This was him.

Nope. Dean was _not_ fighting him.

Owens snorted. "Like anyone follows _rules_ around here." He concentrated his vision on Dean. Dean got mad just looking at the guy. "Especially not your adorable little lunatic here."

"Just back up, man," Dean said. "I ain't feeling so hot."

"Can't blame you. You feel a chill down your spine? Little queasiness in your stomach? Little shiver in your muscles? That's me, Ambrose. And you can't overcome it. Might as well parachute to safety while you can, because you're not getting your hands on this. And your buddy Roman sure as hell won't be able to help you. All he'll be able to do is watch as I tear you apart."

Roman had been right about the cocky attitude. It was irritating. "You know what? This isn't really my scene. Why don't I just let you guys do your thing and I'll see you later—" Dean tried to step away, but Owens blocked his path.

"No. Can't get away that easy. You brought this onto yourself after what you said to me last week. You think I'm just gonna let you walk away? Those were some pretty harsh words, Ambrose, and like I told you before, you _will_ regret it. So you better be ready to step up. Be a man. Take what's coming to you."

"Whatever I said was probably not me even talking," Dean said, unsure if this was true or not. "I mean, I'm supposed to be a lunatic, right? Ain't my fault if I run my mouth and you decide to take a couple of things personally."

Owens's nostrils flared. What was his deal? "You think you're hot shit, don't you? You think you can just walk the world and everyone will bow to the glory, glory hallelujah that is Dean Ambrose." Owens expanded his arms wide to indicate renown. Wide open for an attack...but Dean maintained his self-control. "Let me tell you something. You aren't _shit_. The world isn't buying your act, and neither am I. I will _end_ it. I will _end_ you."

"Back off, Owens." Roman took a step forward, pressing his figure against Owens, his face so close that their foreheads were nearly touching. Owens just looked Roman up and down with condescension, a little smirk, a scoff past his lips. He was vexing Dean just _looking_ at the guy. "I ain't in the match, so I don't have a thing to lose by knocking your teeth out of your mouth right here, right now."

"Try it, Roman. See what happens. Just remember. You may not be in _this_ match, but don't you have a title of your own to defend later tonight? Wouldn't want you to be too _sore_ to participate in that one, would we?"

He was antagonizing Dean so much, Dean was truly feeling a shiver in his muscles…a shake of rage. "You ain't touching him," Dean said, joining Roman at his side to stare Owens down. "Whatever we've got going on between us, _Kev_ , is between you and me. You don't threaten him, you hear me? Or I swear to God, _you'll_ regret it." Dean was a protector, not the protected. He was raised to stand up for himself and for others, not for anyone to make sacrifices on his behalf. Sam might have been an exception on occasion.

Owens blinked at the unexpected nickname. Then he laughed. "Thank God. For a second, I thought Ambrose had come to his _senses_ , and I'd be out of a match tonight. But no. You're still reckless. You're still a psycho. You try to play yourself off as this riddle, this conundrum, but I've got you all figured out, boy."

"Don't you 'boy' me, Kevin."

"Don't you 'Kevin' me, _Dean_." Kevin pressed a finger into Dean's shoulder, then retracted his hand before Dean could take hold of it and bend it till it snapped. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"A lot, apparently. So listen up. Turn around. Walk away. Right now. And there won't be any trouble."

Kevin chuckled again, looking down, shaking his head. Without warning he smashed a fist into Dean's jaw. Stars lit to life in Dean's vision, and he stumbled to the side.

Roman was on Owens before the attack could progress. The two knocked each other to the floor, trading blows to the stomach, the face, the ribs. Dean fought to stand up straight, head still muzzy. He had to get in there. Help Roman out.

Before he retained enough balance to enter the brawl, a team of security guards were jerking them apart. Roman was unsettled, and the guards struggled to contain him. Owens, meanwhile, performed a fake and obnoxious sense of calm and levelheadedness. Security let up on him quicker than Roman. He readjusted the belt on his shoulder and smirked at Dean. Dean was ready to jump him right then and there if he wasn't still surrounded by rent-a-cops.

"See you in the ring tonight, _boy_."

Owens swaggered off down the corridor.

Roman was finally unflustered enough for security to release him. They checked on Dean, making sure he wasn't too damaged, then retreated.

"You okay?" Roman asked.

"I'm fine," Dean said. His tongue ran over a small gash on his lip. He tasted blood. "What the hell's that guy's problem, though?"

"It's Kevin Owens, dude. He's always like this." The way he spoke made it sound like Dean should have known this. And did he know it now, more than ever.

"Well, he ain't getting away with talking all that crap. Taking that cheap shot. Threatening you. Talk about having to step up. He better be ready for _me_."

"So you're fighting him?" Roman asked, a hopeful smile replacing a vengeful grimace.

Dean nodded against everything inside that screamed in protest. "You bet your ass, I'm fighting him."


	5. Chapter 5: Meeting The King

"What year is this vehicle?" Dean asked, pulling the passenger's seat forward in the Impala. Sam, the usual occupant of the seat, used up much more leg room than Dean Winchester.

"1967," Sam, driving, answered.

"Your brother's gotta get with the times, dog."

Sam chuckled. "Try telling him that. He was still listening to cassette tapes ten years ago."

"And they call _me_ crazy." Dean drummed his fingers on his knees. "Where are we going, exactly?"

"Dean and I had a few leads on known hangouts for the witch coven. There's a good chance they may be hiding out in one of those places, now that we uncovered one of their dens back in that alley. Assuming they didn't skip town. If not, we're in trouble."

"We'll find them. I mean…we have to. It's kind of our only choice, right? If I want my body back?"

"We'll find them," Sam repeated. Dean once again found it very easy to believe him. The strangest feeling, considering how few people in the world he truly trusted.

Dean leaned back in his seat, cracking his stiff knuckles. "So. What got you and your brother into this gig, anyway? Chasing ghosts and zapping monsters and stuff?"

"Our dad, actually." The answer sounded sad.

"Yeah? Kinda like a family business thing?"

"You could say that."

"And how many people look at you on a daily basis like you're nuts?"

Sam smiled grimly. "Pretty much every moment of every day, once they know what we're up to. We try not to come out with the truth just like that, if we can help it. We try to protect people's innocence."

"In this world?" Dean waved his hand. "Forget it, man. It's all going to hell. You can either fight it, or go down screaming with it."

"Dean and I are the fighters."

"Hey, so am I. Don't get me wrong. I love what I do, too. But you guys…man. What a gig. Can't imagine the fear of it all."

"Fear's not exactly an option for us."

"Well, you're a lot braver than most people."

"Thanks. So. Wrestling?"

"Yeah. It's always been an outlet for me, for pain and bad days and just plain boredom."

"You any good?"

Dean furnished a cocky grin. "I'd like to think so."

"How many…like, trophies or whatever have you won? Sorry. I don't follow it too often."

"We've got championship belts of all sorts. I've been the United States Champion once. Held it for 351 days."

"Yeah?"

"Third-longest hold in the title's history."

"Wow. That's pretty impressive, dude. Almost a year."

"Thanks. My buddy Roman's got the biggest one of all right now. World Heavyweight Championship."

"Top dog in the dog house?"

"Hell yeah. I'm so proud of him."

"And your match tonight, that's—that was _supposed_ to be—for a title?"

Dean nodded. He still wasn't used to his hair _not_ being in his face. "Intercontinental Championship. It's a secondary title, but it's better than nothing. If my best friend's the best there is in the business, all I can do is strive for second."

"Hey, maybe someday the World Heavyweight Championship will be yours. You've got the fire for it. I can tell. Even in my brother's body. And he doesn't have fire for much. Just killing things."

"So I can relate, on a less extreme scale."

Sam, who'd been glancing over at Dean during his explanation of WWE championship titles, suddenly flinched as he put his eyes back on the road. Dean gasped as he saw someone dressed all in black standing in the middle of the street. Sam brought the Impala to a screeching halt just before colliding with the figure.

A figure who looked mighty calm, having nearly been run over.

Too calm…

Was he… _smiling_?

"Oh, no," Sam mumbled, pressing his hands over his head.

"Do you know him?" Dean asked.

"Hello, boys."

The Scottish-accented voice came from behind them. Dean jumped in an obvious start as the man on the street manifested behind them in the backseat.

"Get out of my car, Crowley," Sam barked.

"Your _car_?" The older character looked curiously from Dean to Sam and back again. "Isn't this an interesting turn of events. What's wrong, Squirrel? Break your foot? Relinquishing control over your baby for a while?"

Dean stared at Sam with bulging eyes, awaiting a clarification. Sam rubbed his lips together, offering none. So he couldn't explain right now. _Awesome, I'll just cope with the magical transporting Scot in the backseat on my own_.

"We're working a case. What do you want?" Sam interrogated.

"Easy, Moose." Crowley raised two hands. Dean flinched, bracing for whatever he could do with those things. Was this one of the supernatural baddies Sam and Dean were used to dealing with? Obviously he was inhuman, considering he'd just zapped himself into the car without warning. But was he a friend or foe? "I'm well aware of your investigation here. In fact, I've come to offer my help."

"Why would you want to help us?" Sam asked.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Perhaps because there's something in it for me, if you can appreciate my honesty. Why else? Because I _like_ you?"

"Yeah. I figured. But what's in it for you?"

"Turns out the coterie you're after is a band of renegades who are worth much more dead than alive. Rebels. Turncoats, if you will. They broke the rules, and now, they need to be turned in for justice."

"Turned into who?"

Crowley just blinked at him, expecting Sam to figure it all out on his own.

And he did.

"Your mother."

"We have a winner!" Crowley said.

 _His mother? Dude's gotta be at least seventy. How's his mom still alive_?

Another thought answered the question for him. _Supernatural. Right. Maybe he's immortal. Maybe they both are_.

"So, here's my proposal, Sammy. I'll help you find them, and we can remove them from the streets. Protect the innocent people they're hurting, blah blah blah, all that heroic crap the two of you are soft for. But instead of offing them, you give them to me. And I can use them for my own purpose."

"No, of course you wouldn't just hand them over to Rowena."

"Oh, I would. For the right price. They're the perfect bargaining chip against the wicked bitch of the west."

"What do you want from her?"

"Anything. I'll get it, no matter what it is." Crowley's grin was devious. "Besides, they're just a bunch of asinine crones. You two don't need them for anything, right? You're only after them to save the day, in typical Winchester fashion."

Sam pursed his lips again. He gave Dean a look. Was he about to spill the truth?

"Yeah. We kinda need them, too."

"Why?"

"Because…they cast a spell on Dean, and we need them to reverse it."

Crowley leaned forward, poking his head between the boys. "Is that a fact? I thought there was something peculiar about Sammy driving the Impala."

"It's Sam, you dick."

"Tell me," Crowley said, disregarding the quip. "What did they do to you, pal? Wipe your memory? Make you think you're Jennifer Lawrence? Warp your vision so you can only see in LSD-induced colors?"

Dean stared at Sam past Crowley's big head. "Can we trust this guy?"

"No. But we can sure use him."

Crowley cocked his head, not disagreeing.

Dean sighed. _Oh well. It's Winchester who has to sort out any mess as a result of this, not me. I'll be good and safe and far away from this dude_.

"I'm not Dean Winchester. I'm Dean Ambrose. Whatever 'spell' those dipshits cast on us caused me to switch bodies with Sam's brother."

Crowley's mouth tore open in a gasp. Then he ruptured into hysterical laughter, head sagging, hands punching the headrests on both car seats.

"Oh, _God_ ," he breathed. "That's bloody brilliant."

"It isn't funny, asshole," Dean growled. He wasn't a fan of this Crowley. "My life is falling apart as we speak because of this crap. I had a really important match tonight, and now Winchester is gonna have to find a way out of it so I don't lose my shot at a major title."

This sent Crowley into another fit of giggles. "So you're Dean Ambrose, the wrestler," he said at the end of them. " _The professional wrestler_."

"Damn right, I am." It was a position he would always be proud of.

"Can I ask you something, _Dean_? How did it feel when Bray Wyatt set his sights on you? Then turned his attention onto your friend Roman Reigns? Wasn't that just chilling?"

"Irritating, above all. Why? What does that have to do with anything?"

Sam looked puzzled that Crowley was even aware of Dean's shows.

"Because Bray Wyatt doesn't have a soul. I know this for a fact."

Dean scoffed. "Doesn't surprise me."

"Well then! Let's have ourselves a road trip." Crowley arched back in the seat, folding his hands behind his head and propping his feet on the headrests. "We'll hunt down these little buggers, you can get your brother back, and then…they belong to me. Sound like a deal, Samantha?"

"Go to hell, Crowley."

Crowley grinned; Dean captured it in the rearview mirror. Talk about _chilling_. "Been there, done that. Dreadful place. Been thinking about redecorating lately."

Dean wondered what the hell that meant.

"Oh, I suppose I should fill him in since we've got the wrong Dean and he's a bit behind now." Crowley leaned forward again, his warm breath creeping into Dean's ear. "I'm a demon. King of Hell. Pleasure to meet you."

Dean swallowed hard. He couldn't camouflage his paranoia about that fact as his knee jounced and his clenched fists shook. _The king of hell_!?

"Ah, this is gonna be fun!" Crowley said. "Now drive, McQueen."


	6. Chapter 6: The Match

Dean had been watching matches for the past hour, and he still wasn't entirely sure how he was going to go through with this.

He wished he could write down some notes and study them until his match against Kevin Owens. It was scheduled right after a Divas match between two dames named Charlotte and Brie Bella. While venturing against the distraction of two beautiful girls in the ring beating up on each other, Dean concentrated on all tips he'd developed for himself.

 _If he pins you for three counts from the ref, you lose. If you tap out while trapped in a painful position, you lose. Everything seems to count except jabs to the nads and use of weapons. He can throw you. The match can carry on outside the ring._

 _Shit's gonna hurt_.

It wasn't too late to leave. He didn't need to offer an explanation. He could have just walked away, failed to appear, no-call/no-show. Let Owens gloat, revel in his own egotism, keep the belt for another day. Ambrose could find a way to get it on his own. That _was_ the plan, right? Ambrose didn't want him to fight the match in his place.

But Dean Winchester wasn't one to bail on anything. Not ever.

And he had a feeling Ambrose wasn't the fleeing type, either.

This was going to happen.

Roman's match wasn't until the end of the night, the "main event", so Dean didn't get to observe him in action, learn from his techniques and methodology.

"You ready, Ambrose?" a techie asked.

Dean let out a sigh. "As I'll ever be."

He positioned himself backstage where the techie instructed. Apparently he was supposed to wait for some music cue. When rock music blasted from the main arena and the crowd detonated with applause, he took that as a prompt.

The lights were bright on him. Dean squinted his eyes, almost shielding them with his hands, as he sauntered down the walkway. It seemed so far away from here. He took his time getting there without meaning to. The place was shaking off its foundation, that's how loud it was. A camera pressed close into him, capturing his figure and his face as he walked. _Don't look at the camera_ , Dean reminded himself from a past experience. _Look anywhere but the camera_. Leaving the technological device in his peripheral vision, he concentrated on getting to the ring. It looked much bigger here than it had on the TV backstage.

"The following contest is scheduled for one-fall!" a blonde beauty announced through a microphone from inside the ring. "Introducing first, from Cincinnati, Ohio, weighing in at two-hundred and twenty five pounds…Dean _Ambrose_!"

The proclamation of his name provoked a fresh sequence of screeches and cheers. _Damn, people love them some Ambrose_. Dean's face flared up with an uneasy grin. He waved to the audience meekly, feeling as flattered as he did fraught with so much attention on him. He quickened his pace and pulled himself into the ring. Ropes were thick. Mat felt awfully hard under his shoes. How could people hit this thing at tremendous speeds and forces without cracking their skulls open?

Dean Ambrose's music faded, replaced with another heavy rock-sounding riff. Kevin Owens's name and video clips of his matches flashed on the big screen. The hollers from the spectators suddenly countered, some hissing and booing, others roaring just as loudly for Owens as they had for Dean. He seemed to have an even amount of enthusiasts and haters.

Dean immediately glowered at the real sight of Kevin Owens, progressing towards the ring like he owned the place, conceit even in his posture, his chin tipped up towards the heavens like he'd created them. The Intercontinental Championship belt was still hanging over his shoulder.

Dean wondered how heavy it was.

Wondered how he—how _Ambrose_ —would look with the title hanging over _his_ shoulder.

Maybe he'd get to find out.

Or maybe he'd get his ass beat.

He was destined to find out.

At least he was standing his ground. Unafraid. He'd dealt with much more horrific things in his day than a grump with an attitude problem. He was ready for anything. Or so he would have liked to believe.

"And his opponent," the blonde's voice reverberated in his ear. "From Marieville, Quebec, Canada, weighing in at two-hundred and sixty-six pounds, he is the Intercontinental Champion, Kevin _Owens_!"

Owens ascended a short metal staircase and slipped between the ropes, taking a stance in the corner. His look was disgusting, like Dean was some reckless imbecile caught talking in church and Owens was the high priest Dean had interrupted. Scoffing. Smirking. Rolling his eyes. _I've seen things in my day that would make you want to blow your brains out if you were ever unfortunate enough to encounter them. Don't you dare look at me like you know me, like you have the right to judge me, you son of a bitch_.

Dean channeled that anger, roped it into his muscles. It could govern him through this match.

Kevin Owens handed his belt—quite obviously unwillingly—to the official, who held it high above his head. _Yeah, yeah, yeah, we all get that's what this is about. Just ring the bell already_.

Owens smiled smugly. Dean kept glowering.

The bell rang three times.

Owens stayed where he was.

Dean stepped forward, teeming with adrenaline, but something held him back. Why was Owens just standing there? What was his game plan? Dean had to learn _something_ about it before making any countermoves—or even firsthand moves.

Worst of all, he was still smirking.

Dean was losing it against that "superior" little beam alone.

"Come on!" Dean hollered. "What are you waiting for?"

Owens shrugged one shoulder.

 _Probably waiting for me. Probably wants to see what I do so he can strike back._

Owens wandered forward, glancing from side to side, registering the fans. Then he took Dean in his vision fully.

Dean cocked his head. _The hell am I supposed to do? I didn't come in this ring to stand around and stare into his eyes—_

Owens surprised him by making the first move. He charged at Dean, thrusting his sturdy arm into Dean's face and propelling him backwards. Dean felt his nose bone bruise upon impact and pain spread like a small fire at the unyielding force. Before he knew it Owens had him backed against the ropes. He pinned Dean there, swinging his fist into Dean's chest again and again and again. The official made a hopeless attempt to make Owens back off, but it was clear he would cease on his own terms, and those terms would come about rarely.

 _Fight back, idiot_ , something whispered to Dean _. This ain't your first Mortal Kombat jamboree_.

Dean tried a head butt, drilling his cranium into Owens's gut. It worked for a moment, long enough for Dean to spin away from the ropes. Owens recovered less than a second later. He thrust his leg into Dean's tender chest. As Dean's head slumped forward, his body's response to the blow, Owens fastened Dean's neck under his arm and fell to the mat, driving Dean's head to the mat.

He's been right. The mat was _hard_.

 _God, what the hell am I doing!? Why did I agree to this!?_

"Fight, you little wuss!" The voice didn't come from within this time, but from Owens, back on his feet. "Come on!"

Dean took a shot. He shoved his leg up, going for a kick somewhere, _anywhere_. The punt had little impact from this angle, with so little strength behind it. Owens grabbed hold of Dean's leg, brought his own leg up, and stomped on Dean's other ankle. Dean growled in pain. Owens released his leg, and it fell limp like the rest of his body.

 _Just lay here for a second. Breathe. Focus_.

Owens bent down to scream in his face again, his fingers tugging at long hair Dean wasn't used to having, let alone having pulled. "What is wrong with you!? Fight _back_!"

Now was his chance. Owens's gloating would be his downfall.

Dean wielded a shaking, mighty fist. His knuckles collided with Owens's cheekbone. Owens stumbled backwards, and Dean clambered to his feet. He allowed no recovery time for Owens as he cried out in fury and launched another punch. His tight skin tore open striking Owens in the same place. Blood oozed from two of his knuckles. The flesh stung. Dean ignored it. He rushed Owens again, this time with a more successful kick to the gut. Owens keeled over. As Dean drew in nearer for another strike, Owens met him halfway with a plow, shooting his foot like a rocket into the air. The kick met Dean's face with brutality, and he flopped onto the mat.

Owens crawled on top of him, hooking an arm under his leg. The official hit the mat. This was the pin. This was the count.

But Dean wasn't going to lose this way.

He followed what he'd witnessed just minutes ago and kicked out of the pin. His nose stung something fierce. He wondered if it was broken.

No time to question it. His adrenaline was making him high.

Time to use this energy to _win_.

 _Somehow_.

Owens grabbed Dean by the shirt and forced him to his feet. He twisted his arm for a punch. Dean dodged it with a duck and swayed his body so he was behind Owens. As Owens spun around to face him, Dean borrowed a move he'd viewed earlier in the night—Cesar was his name?—and thrashed Owens across the throat with his full arm. Then he leaped into the air and used both feet to boot Owens, a move he'd picked up from some gymnast wrestler with a purple cape. Owens was too stupefied to remain on his feet after those blows, and he crashed down onto the mat.

 _Wow. This body can do things like that_.

Dean decided to attempt a pin. He threw himself atop Owens and took hold of his leg.

The official hit the mat just once before Owens kicked out.

 _Dammit. Gotta get him way more weary than this before that'll work_.

Owens was livid. He grabbed Dean's shoulders from behind and kicked his spine. Dean was back on his knees. He felt Owens's arms coil around his neck next, compressing his throat tight. Dean's fingers clawed at Owens's arms as he gasped desperately for air. The harder he tore at the arms, the tighter they gripped his neck. _Why not…use your hands…for something that'll…actually work_ …

There was an idea.

Dean thrust his elbow behind him. He hit Owens somewhere effective. The pressure on his neck loosened. Dean threw his fist over his shoulder, hitting Owens again, this time in the face. Dean twirled around, recovering his balance. He held Owens's shoulders and rammed his knee up into Owens's nose.

 _I'm getting the hang of this_.

Owens soared backwards, rolling until he passed underneath the ropes.

Matches could carry on outside the ring. Dean remembered this.

And, just as Owens had claimed Dean wasn't allowed to just "walk away" from this match, nor would Dean permit Owens to walk—or roll—away.

Dean rushed towards the ropes, taking them in a hold. Owens was still striving to stand up straight. Dean borrowed from Purple Cape-Wearing Wrestler again, carefully shimmied up the ropes, then leaped off them, intending to tackle Owens right back to the floor.

But it had been a trick. Owens wasn't actually striving; it was merely a ploy to lure Dean into combat. It had worked. A sturdy Owens caught him in the air, then cast him over his shoulder. Dean's figure rattled against against the concrete walkway. His body absorbed the pain better, more impressively, than Dean expected to feel smacking against concrete. It had hurt, sure, but he didn't feel broken.

 _This body is freakin' built for this crap. Ambrose must be a warrior_.

Owens was grabbing him again. He flipped Dean from his stomach to his backside. Pinning his legs to the hard floor underneath his knees, Owens snatched the collar of Dean's shirt and lifted his head off the ground. A blow to the jaw sent it down again.

"Why don't you cry out for your brother?" Owens ridiculed. He repeated his process. Lift Dean, punch his face, let his skull hit the ground. "I'm sure he's losing his mind back there, watching you suffer, can't do a damn thing about it."

Lift. Punch. Fall.

Owens saying "brother" didn't make Dean think of Roman. It made him think of Sam.

And nobody was allowed to talk about Sam this way. Nobody.

"Come on," Owens sneered. Lift. Punch. Fall. "Cry out for him. He'll come running for you. I guarantee." Lift.

"Shut the hell up about my brother!" Dean snarled.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I did use the word 'brother', didn't I? I meant 'boyfriend.'" Punch. Fall. "The two of you make me sick."

The pain in his head, the blood spewing from his nose, wasn't distracting Dean from the black rage boiling him alive.

Owens would pay for saying that. Saying anything about Sam, or Roman, or _anyone_ Dean cared about.

Lift.

No punch. No fall.

Dean caught Owens's fist, his hand absorbing the blow instead of his face this time. He violently bent Owens's fingers back, twisting them in gruesome directions until he heard a snap.

Owens bleated.

Now Dean had the advantage.

While Owens cradled his injured hand, Dean sat up and knocked Owens in the side of the head. He forced himself atop the falling Owens and hurled punch after punch after punch into Owens's face. He aimed for the jaw, the nose, the forehead. He wanted to break skin. Draw blood. He wanted to break something—something else, assuming he'd cracked one of the bones in Owens's hands before.

Owens wasn't fighting back. He wasn't resisting.

Dean unchained his anger, and it was relaying straight to Owens from the outside in.

He couldn't hear the ref counting behind him. The audience echoing the numbers he shouted into the air.

When Dean only let up on the blows because of how exhausted he felt as a result, he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. A blend of sweat and blood streaked over the skin. Owens moaned weakly.

"Don't you _ever_ talk about my family again," Dean muttered in his face.

The bell clanged repeatedly.

Dean turned around, suddenly remembering he'd been fighting in a match that meant something in front of hundreds of people. The bell. Did that mean he won? Well, he was certainly no loser, _just look at what you did to this bastard_. Dean was beside himself as he pushed off of Owens. He cackled, feeling cocky.

But the crowd was no longer cheering for him.

Instead the entire arena darkened with boos.

The official was waving his arms frantically.

Dean blinked. _What—_?

"Ladies and gentlemen, the referee has declared this a double count-out," the blonde announcer spoke with remorse into the microphone.

"What the hell is a double count-out?" Dean wondered aloud. He loped back towards the ring. His adrenaline was no longer his high; pain was circulating through his body, from his head to all ten toes. "I won, right? I _had_ to have won that one."

"No, you didn't," the official said, staring blankly at Dean. "It's a draw."

Dean was stunned. He looked back at Owens, then returned focus to the official. "Well, is he still champion?" he demanded.

The referee turned to the blonde beauty for this answer.

"By the official rules," she divulged, "a championship may not change hands in the event of a draw. Therefore, still your Intercontinental Champion, Kevin Owens!"

The audience exploded once more into differing acclamation: some for Ambrose, others for Owens.

Dean was outraged, exploding in a different way for his own rightful reasons.

"WHAT!?" he bellowed. "That is _bullshit_! I won that one! _Look_ at him!" He craned his neck to look at Kevin Owens, who was now being tended to by the medical staff.

Owens glanced over at him.

And smirked.

That did it for Dean. He felt himself falling apart at the seams. He won the match. He had the advantage when the bell rang. He might not have pinned Kevin Owens or forced him into that submission hold thing…but dammit, _he_ won. This was _his_ victory. _He_ was standing while Owens had fake paramedics checking up on him.

Dean watched in a daze as the official carried Owens's championship belt over to him. Owens pulled away from the med staff, lifting a hand as though to insist he was alright after all. He held out his hands for the title.

Dean's nostrils flared. Beads of sweat clung to his face. Smoke lifted from his head, smoke he could feel yet nobody could see.

Owens didn't deserve to stay champion. He hadn't won.

They'd both won…or they'd both lost.

But Owens was no victor. No winner. No champ.

That was Ambrose's belt.

That was _Dean's_ belt.

And he hadn't gone against Ambrose's instructions and willingly stepped into the ring, hadn't risked his safety, his life, to watch Owens waltz out of here with that championship.

 _It's his. Mine, I guess…ours_.

 _I ain't letting you down, Ambrose_.

Owens lifted the belt high into the air. The onlookers were hysterical over the outcome of the match.

Dean charged him one last time.

He used the leap and double kick to send an unsuspecting Owens toppling to the ground. The fall tore the belt from his grasp.

Dean was quick to retrieve it.

 _It_ is _a little heavy_ , he thought, scooping the title under his arm _. Feels good, though._

The official tried to stop him. Even the medical staff attempted a cease to his escape. But Dean shoved past two of them, storming away from the ring, away from the crowd, the announcers, the hot announcer chick…all of it.

Dean barreled down the walkway and rounded the corner backstage. He picked up the pace like he was being chased. It was very possible he was. His fatigue and physical suffering tried to restrain him. He stormed away from that, too. He rushed further and further away until going any further would have put him outside the arena.

Dean pushed through a random door. He found himself in a utility closet. With an unstable breath, he leaned against the closed door and slumped to the floor, clutching the belt with both hands. His entire body trembled. It hurt to breathe.

But he felt, in some way, he'd done the right thing. And that overcame every form of pain.

 _Here's your title, Dean. You've earned it, I'm sure. I know damn well I have_.


	7. Chapter 7: Capture

Sam pulled the Impala to a stop for the tenth or eleventh time, this time in front of a shabby apartment complex. Dean was getting restless and cynical regarding their search. Sam had been certain the witches were at the _last_ ten or eleven sites. Now he thought, for _sure_ , they'd be here.

Dean wondered if Sam's optimism ever got on his brother's nerves.

"Okay, last stop, I hope," Sam said. "Once again, stay here, Crowley and I will scour the place."

"Yep, got it," Dean droned. Being a hunter sure was boring.

"If you hear Sam wailing in pain," Crowley said, leaning forward in the seat, "don't worry. That happens quite a bit. Might be best for you to sit out and completely ignore it."

Dean rolled his eyes. Crowley's inclination reminded him of Kevin Owens in some ways. So snarky. "If something goes down, I'll be there to help. I _am_ a fighter."

"But you're not a hunter."

Somehow Dean found himself offended at the comment. "I don't need to be a hunter to know how to put someone through a table or knock the daylights out of 'em."

"I say we just let him come in with us," Crowley said to Sam. "He seems to know _exactly_ what he's doing." Derision sullied the words.

"No," Sam stated. "I don't want him getting hurt."

"Sam, I'm not your brother," Dean reminded him. "You don't have to worry so much about me. I wanna help. These bastards are the reason I'm not in Miami right now, prepping for the biggest match of my career. If there's anything I can do, I want to do it."

Sam sighed. Dean was getting somewhere. "Okay. Do you know how to use a gun?"

"Yeah, sure," he lied. How difficult could it have been? Point and shoot. Simple enough.

"You can stand guard at the door in case any of them try to escape," Sam directed.

"No, no, wait a minute," Crowley said. "I need these imps alive. Dead witches aren't very useful against my mother."

"Well, you should know that Dean—not this Dean, but my brother—offed two of 'em earlier."

"Of course he did," the demon soughed. "Well, no more, then. I need the ones that are _left_ alive. Just _pretend_ like you're going to shoot them if they don't cooperate."

"Fine," Dean huffed. The adrenaline was carrying through his veins at the prospect of actually having to use the weapon. He needed to get out of the car.

Sam surrendered the handgun. It was heavy, much heavier than other weapons Dean had managed in his day. It probably had a hell of a kick to it.

"Let's go," Sam said.

Dressed in a suit, Sam Winchester made for a plausible FBI agent. The property had no issue with relinquishing personal information regarding the suspect Sam was after, even pointing him to the right apartment. Sam thanked him and met with Dean and Crowley back outside.

Without a word, he conveyed a specific message. _Let's go_.

Dean felt more comfortable standing behind or next to Crowley than letting the demon trail behind him. Sam led the way, and Dean kept a steady pace beside the alleged king of hell. Crowley seemed to note this and frequently changed his pace from quicker, nearly passing Sam, to so slow that Sam would turn around and stare at him until he quit screwing around. He was toying with Dean and Dean hated it.

"How do you put up with this guy?" Dean asked, catching up to Sam, leaving Crowley in the distance.

"We just kinda do," Sam said. "Sometimes he's a big help. Sometimes he's a royal pain."

"Royal!" Crowley laughed, accent painting the appropriate word choice. "I see what you did there, Moose."

Sam approached a set of glass doors on one of the buildings and punched some passcode into a keypad. The keypad beeped and blinked green. A lock clicked. Sam tugged the door open. Dean moved into the quiet hallway. He wasn't used to such silence. It was driving him insane. He wished someone would yell, or the action would start up. He was itching for a duel.

"1204," Sam said. "Up the stairs at the end, there."

The apartment was just at the top of the stairs, across from 1203. Sam leaned against one side of the doorway. Dean mirrored him, pressing on the opposite side of the frame, wanting to follow the way of the trained hunter. Crowley stood between them, hands folded like a patient bystander.

Sam gave Dean a look. Dean tried to read it. Before he could Sam lifted a foot and kicked the door. It nearly flew off its hinges, the golden lock deemed useless. Sam swarmed into the apartment, weapon raised, and Dean and Crowley followed like bees following their queen.

Empty. But evidence of their recent presence was obvious.

The front room was lit by a dim lamp and no other light. The thick curtains over the window were drawn closed. The air reeked of incense. Dusty books were stacked on towering stands. One of the books, a hefty read, was open on the floor on a rug. Strewn over the circular runner were bowls brimming with crushed powders and other unknown pungent ingredients. A candle was lit in the center of it all.

Dean made a face. "This looks like some serious witchcraft shit."

"Yeah, it is," Sam said. He checked out the rest of the apartment: a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen attached to the living area. All clear. Dean lowered the gun, sort of relieved he wouldn't have to use it even as a scare tactic. "Don't be surprised if you find any dead animals around."

"Gross."

"So where are they, Sam?" Crowley asked, wandering to the rug and squatting down to pinch a clove from a bowl between his fingers.

"We're getting closer," Sam insisted. "Just be patient. Look at this. Obviously they were up to something in here, and very recently—"

A girl screamed, searing Dean's ears. He wheeled around and saw a thin brunette girl standing beside a muscular boy with dreadlocks and wide brown eyes.

"What the hell!" he barked.

"They're home," Crowley noted.

He lifted both hands and chanted, " _Igitur evanescunt_ —"

Nope. No Latin shit was going down in here. Latin shit could only mean one thing in this state of affairs: another spell to fuck everything up.

Dean interfered in his area of expertise. He abandoned use of the gun and charged at Dreadlocks Douche. They both collided with the wall, Dean on top, dominating the male witch.

"DONNIE!" the brunette wailed.

Dean wrestled "Donnie" to the floor, jabbing blow after blow into the side of his face. His nose spewed with blood. He was trying to use his hands again, something Dean understood at once _couldn't_ happen. He pulled off of Donnie, just for a moment, then leaped into the air and brought both feet forcefully down again on his left wrist. Something must have fractured to a degree because Donnie was suddenly screaming, now only using his other hand to cradle its injured twin. Dean wouldn't even give him the pleasure. He flipped Donnie onto his stomach, took a firm hold of his arm, and twisted it into the shape of a half-pretzel, his wrist bordering breakage now.

Crowley meanwhile had taken hold of the brunette girl, who looked ready to cast some freak spell with her own hands if she wasn't shaking so bad. Of all these supposed "asinine crones", she had to be the weakest.

Sam looked on to Dean, bottom lip jutting like he was considering something.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Nothing. Just…you're really good at this."

"Fighting? Yeah. Kind of my forte."

"Let her go, you asshole!" Donnie yowled, disregarding his own peril and staring up at Crowley and his trembling hostage. He'd recovered the weapon Dean had dispensed, pressing the end of it against the brunette's head. This caused her to quiver even more. Tears surfaced in her eyes. Donnie couldn't budge from Dean's painful hold.

"You children have been very naughty," Crowley said. "Where's the rest of your band? Surely it's not just the two of you meeting up in this dump for good times?"

Donnie bowed his head, most likely to hide a flushing face. "They're getting breakfast."

"Oh, and what are we having? Boo-Berry Cereal?"

Dean nearly laughed at the witty retort. Maybe in different circumstances.

"How many are left?" But the question was for Sam, not for Donnie or Crowley's young captive.

"There were four left in the alley before they cast that spell on my brother," Sam said.

"So we've got half of them. That's fantastic. Guess we can wait around for the other vermin here in the meantime."

The hunter, the wrestler and the demon did not have to wait for long. A busty redheaded woman and a stocky blond male shuffled into the apartment and froze at the sight of their buddies held prisoner.

"What's going on here!?" the redhead demanded, seemingly undeterred by the stakes. "What did you do, Rebecca!?"

"It's not my fault!" the brunette—Rebecca, evidently—protested. Crowley restrengthened his grip around her neck, forcing her to cough out.

"Let her go, or I'll—" Crowley did not allow the blond to reveal his threat. He lifted the gun and shot him in the leg. The blond screamed out in pain and collapsed to the floor, dark blood staining his jeans in a heavy gush.

 _Now_ the redhead was a bit frightened. She took a step back towards the door, but Crowley aimed the weapon at her.

"I don't even need this, you know," Crowley mentioned to her. "You'd be thankful for a simple gunshot wound to a limb after knowing what I'm capable of."

The redhead froze in place.

"Thought you needed 'em alive," Dean said.

"He'll survive," Crowley said. "Might need physical therapy for the next few months, but I just need him to be breathing."

"That's the dick who put the spell on Dean and…Dean," Sam said, glowering at the crippled blond witch.

"Is it now?" Crowley said. He moved with his hostage towards the fallen blond. "Tell me, what spell did you use this morning on this boy? _Bodius swapus_?"

"Wh-what—" he stammered, wincing through his pain. "Please, I need a hospital—o-or a healing spell—"

"Just answer my questions and we'll get you out of this smelly, shabby juncture."

"O-okay, yeah, I-I used a spell on him earlier," he stuttered, glancing at Dean, who wasn't letting up on Donnie. "I-it was just to get him to go away! I didn't mean to hurt anyone!"

"Too late," Dean said. "Gonna need some heavy-ass therapy after this one."

"W-why? W-w-what's wrong with him? What did I do?"

"Probably bumbled over a spell and had no idea what you were doing. But that's alright. It's all better now. Crowley's in charge, and I know what I'm doing."

The redhead thought she had an advantage with Crowley focusing on her wounded friend. She got a quarter of a spell past her lips before Crowley simply wiggled his fingers and sent her body flying across the room. Her head smacked against the off-yellow wall, and she subsided as her companion had.

"Told you," Crowley said.

Rebecca was sobbing, limp in Crowley's hold. "We're sorry," she gasped. "We're so sorry, we won't break the rules ever again, please, just don't hurt me, don't hurt them anymore, just let us go—"

"Too late, love. Apologies. But _Crowley_ is in charge, as I've said. The charges have been brought upon you, and now it's time for your pre-trial. How do you plead?"

"Um…guilty?" she tried.

"I appreciate your honesty, but it won't save you from retribution."

Crowley put a foot on the blond and rolled him onto his back. "What's your name, mate?"

"Nash," he groaned.

"Nash? Seriously?"

"Y-yeah…?"

Crowley rolled his eyes like it was a ridiculous name. "Okay, Sammykins, take _Nash_ here out with you and Not Not Moose. He's the one you were after, right? The one who sent Jamie Lee Curtis and Lindsay Lohan into a world of whack? Leave the others to me for now. I can handle them."

"Alright," Sam said, sighing. He crossed the floor and lifted Nash to his feet, locking an arm around his neck. Nash was too weak to resist. He could hardly stand on his own, forcing all the weight to his good leg.

Dean was hesitant to push off Donnie, free him. But Crowley nodded to him, insisting it was alright to do so.

He stood up. Donnie scrambled to crawl forward, away from Dean, but Crowley bent his fingers again and put him in an invisible hold, exactly how he'd been under Dean. Donnie winced and groaned.

"These kids never learn," the demon sighed.


	8. Chapter 8: Catching Up

Dean waited in that closet until what felt like the break of dawn.

It turned out to only be an hour or so.

Finally he thought he should leave. He pressed his ear to the door, hearing nothing but distant conversation. Slowly Dean pushed the door open and slipped through the crack which allowed just enough space for him and his cherished championship.

The program was finished. The parking lot was jammed with exhausted, gratified wrestling fans. Backstage was abundant in superstars, some lingering behind to chat with fellow wrestlers, others getting checked out for injuries by the medical staff. Dean didn't recognize anyone back here, of course, other than guys he'd seen wrestling prior to his match.

He avoided the crowd, cutting down a separate hallway.

A familiar pouting voice reverberated off these walls. Kevin Owens, Dean realized with a bit of unease, wailing and clamoring, his fingers under treatment in a trainer's room at the end of the corridor.

Dean darted a different way. He felt like a rat in a maze.

Finally a side door he pushed through gained him access outside. He took a breath of the muggy air. Dean couldn't remember the last time he and Sam had been to Florida—if ever.

The title belt was getting really heavy. His body was throbbing, begging for rest.

Dean hid himself behind a great sign flapping in a warm breeze, promoting the next big event at American Airlines Arena. It was a decent enough cover for Dean to catch his breath, sit still as his figure processed the pain.

He dipped a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket and extracted his phone.

He had two text messages. Both from Roman.

 _[Don't blame you for what you did.]_

 _[Disappeared? Maybe I'll see you back at the hotel?]_

Of course he would. He couldn't leave Roman behind to fend for himself against an irate Owens. But right now he had just one priority higher than meeting Roman back at the hotel.

Dean called up his brother.

His actual brother.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Sammy."

"Dean. Hey." Sam's pitch veered to relieved. "Did you get out of that match?"

"Uh, no. Not exactly."

"What? You fought?"

Dean sighed. Ambrose probably overheard that, as much as Dean wanted to explain it on his own. "Yeah. I did. And this guy is—"

Dean was interrupted by softened banter. Then Ambrose—in Winchester's voice, a sensation he'd never get used to—came onto the phone.

"Dean. Do _not_ tell me you fought Kevin Owens for the Intercontinental title."

"I didn't just fight Kevin Owens for the Intercontinental title. I got it."

Dean could visualize the look on Ambrose's—Dean's—face. Jaw drooping towards the floor of…wherever they currently were. Eyes sprouting from the sockets, nearly freeing themselves and rolling off his cheeks like marbles. Ambrose wouldn't believe it just like Dean nearly couldn't.

"You…what?"

"I have the title, Dean. It's in my hands. It's yours."

"How did you…what did you…"

"I did really well. I kicked the crap out of him. Took some heavy hits myself, but he couldn't keep me down."

"And you…I mean, I…I'm the—"

"Rightful. Intercontinental Champion of the WWE. You're welcome."

"Wait. Rightful? What does that mean? Did you win the match?"

Dean sighed. What was the point of lying to the guy if he could get his life back any day and discover the truth? By then Winchester would be long gone out of Ambrose's life, and the consequences of actions taken when the two were switched would be dealt with when the time came…

But Dean would be outraged to learn if Ambrose did anything in _his_ life and lied about it. Altered the course of _his_ existence. Letting Lucifer out of his cage again, for example, not that swiping a championship belt from Kevin Owens could even compare to that disaster.

But the point was made within himself.

Plus, it would have been too easy for Ambrose to turn on the TV and catch Raw highlights.

Lying was futile.

"I was winning," Winchester expounded, "and I wasn't aware of anything called a double count-out. So the match ended. No winners, no losers…and I guess that meant no title change, too. I was so pissed, because if I'd known about that stupid rule, I would have towed his crying ass back center-ring and finished him off there instead of way on the outside. And he wasn't about to get away with the belt that I busted my ass to earn. So I kind of…stole it."

He closed his eyes. A new image of Ambrose surfaced in his mind at these modern details. Anger. Shame. Fury. Trembling muscles, face strawberry-red, sweat gathering and trickling down his cheeks…

"Holy crap. You've taken over my body _and_ my mind."

Dean's eyes opened. "What?"

Was Ambrose…cracking up hysterically?

"Holy crap," he managed through the hooting. "You're starting to think a lot like me, Dean. I'm kind of impressed. Man. So you just…grabbed the title and took off running? Didn't look back?"

"A little." Dean was still flabbergasted at Ambrose's solid composure. Sort of.

"Man…I've done that before, dude. I won a match against my former brother Seth Rollins for the World Heavyweight Championship. But it was by DQ, so yeah, I won the match, but there was no title change. Can't be earned in a disqualification. So I stole that baby and kept it with me for a month."

"And you lost it, right?"

Ambrose sighed. "Yeah. In a more 'fair' match at Money in the Bank."

"Sorry to hear that. But hey. As far as the world is concerned right now, Dean Ambrose is _your_ _Intercontinental Champion_!" he said, mimicking that blonde announcer's strong voice.

"That's brilliant." Dean could hear the smile in his voice. "I take it Owens is pissed, though."

"Oh, his blood's boiling, dude. And I don't think he's the type to quietly back down after a stunt like this."

"No, sir. But we'll get that figured out. Are you with Roman?"

"No. He's somewhere inside still, probably. I've kind of been hiding out with this title since the match."

"Call him up. Make sure he's alright. Then you can call us back. We've got some news, too."

Ambrose was thinking just as Dean was. They were both concerned Roman would be the target of a vengeful Owens. "Got it."

"Thanks. Appreciate it."

Dean scrolled through Ambrose's contact list until finding Roman's number. He was the only contact listed under "Favorites."

"Hey."

"Hey, Roman," Dean said. "Where you at? Wanna come pick me up?"

"I'm back at the hotel. I thought you might have ran here after your match."

"That would have been smart, but I was hiding out. Didn't want to get razed by Owens after what happened."

"That's smart too. Hang tight. I'm coming to get you."

"Oh, you don't need to come all the way back here to get me. I can catch a cab or something."

"It's not out of the way, Dean. It's a short drive. I don't mind."

Damn, did Roman really care about Dean Ambrose. "Well…thanks. But you're okay, then? Owens didn't come after you in a heated rage?"

"Nope. Last I heard of him, he was getting x-rayed. You might have rendered his hand completely useless, bro."

"Good. Screw that guy for thinking he could get away with being champ for another night. More like chump. What a joker." He wasn't sure if Dean Ambrose really talked this was, but he needed to insure Roman everything was alright with him. He was much better from earlier. He credited himself for performing an action that wasn't just outside Ambrose's range of behavior—but something he'd actually done himself once before. It wasn't out of character and it was nearly expected of him. Winchester was fitting Ambrose's role well.

Roman chuckled softly. "I'll be there soon, Dean."

"Thanks, Roman."

He was quick to call Sam's phone back after ending the call with Roman.

"Hey, Dean." Sam had answered.

"Hey. Roman will be here in a few minutes to pick me up. Tell me everything."

"Okay, well, we found the witches. Managed to capture them with…a little bit of help."

"Help?" Dean lifted one eyebrow.

"Yeah, long story, don't want to get into it now since I only have a few minutes to explain…"

"Tell me the long story later when there's more time."

"I will," Sam promised. "But the important thing is, we have the witches. All of them. Dean—I mean, Ambrose, did a really good job helping us detain them?"

"Did he?"

"Yep. He's one hell of a fighter."

"I can imagine. Way to go, Ambrose." Dean was proud of him. Ambrose was fitting the role of a Winchester well, too.

"Anyway, we're one step closer to figuring out how to switch you and Ambrose back again."

"You even got the little bastard that did this to us?"

"Yeah. But we haven't gotten much out of him. He's been crying a lot, begging for forgiveness, apologizing, even asking for his mom."

"Tough." Dean's eyes were black with unconcern. "He hasn't squealed?"

"Nope. He said when he cast the spell, he thought it was a different one. He got his words mixed up or something. He pretty much admitted to being completely incompetent."

"So where is he now?"

There was a pause. Dean felt it had to do with the "long story" Sam had mentioned. "Somewhere safe. Don't worry. He's not going anywhere."

"Alright, fine." _We keep way too much from each other_.

A black rental car pulled into the parking lot. Dean recognized it and waved it down. "Roman's here. I have to go. Tell Ambrose his boy's safe. No Kevin Owens on our asses right now."

"Got it," Ambrose's voice came along.

"I've got you on speaker. He heard it," Sam verified.

"Cool. I guess I'm gonna head back to the hotel with Roman. Let me know if anything changes. I guess I'll know if whatever you tried worked when I'm back at home again with you, Sam."

"No guarantees it'll happen tonight, Dean, but we're trying. We're working really hard."

"I trust you. Take care of him tonight, Ambrose. Look out for him."

"Look out for Roman. And yourself, Dean."

"Sure will. Goodnight."

The call ended. Dean jogged towards the parked car.

Roman was smiling when Dean tugged the passenger door open. "You're something else, Dean Ambrose," he mentioned, eyes contemplating the belt over Dean's shoulder.

"I sure am," Dean said. He couldn't have agreed more, and for the first time since this spell interfered with his life, he felt good.


	9. Chapter 9: Leverage

It had been well over twelve hours since the body switch, and Dean Ambrose was still Dean Winchester.

He leaned sluggish against the brick wall, arms over his chest heavy from bearing this jacket all day, but the weather was too biting late in the evening to take it off. Across the alley— _the_ alley, where this disaster-fest began—Sam loomed over Nash. The young male was not bound, but he wasn't going anywhere without a chase and a beatdown. Especially not with a bullet in his limb. His hands needed to be free to cast any sort of spell, the only thing he uttered all day that Sam and Dean actually believed.

"I—I don't remember how it went," Nash said, the lane tearing into his knees. "I can't undo it because I just can't remember what spell I used."

"Something that turned me into a hunter and Dean Winchester into a WWE superstar," Dean said brusquely. "That's a freaking bizarre coincidence, don't you think? Two Deans, switched?"

"Th-the world is _full_ of Deans," Nash insisted. "Please let me go, guys. Please. I miss my friends. I miss Rebecca."

"You'll all be united again once we get this spell undone," Sam stated. Dean perhaps shared his thought. _Under Crowley. Not free, but reunited_.

"Sam, this is pointless," Dean's voice rustled. "If he could fix this by now, he would have. Either he's holding out and hiding something from us, or he's a bigger idiot than either of us think."

"You _seriously_ can't remember which spell it was?" Sam asked, squatting down to meet Nash eye-to-eye. "You know what the spell's capable of. Body-switching doesn't seem to occur too often in the occult. How many spells could possibly exist that pull off just that?"

"I—I think I remember what spell I _meant_ to use."

"That doesn't help us," Dean growled, ready to kick the kid in the head.

"Let's see… _perge…perge ad…perge ad ali_ —"

"Don't say anything unless you're _sure_ what it is and what it does," Sam commanded him. "If I end up in Sam Elliot's body next, we're in bigger trouble."

"He's a moron, Sam!" Dean bellowed, storming over to Nash. Nash cringed, bracing for the hit Dean so badly wanted to deliver. "He has no idea what he's doing! He's an inept git who blurted something in Latin and stole me away from my amazing life, and stranded your brother in a life that's going to get him _really_ hurt if we don't get this figured out soon."

"I didn't mean to hurt anyone—" Nash stumbled.

"IT DOESN'T MATTER!" Dean screamed. "Forget about your intentions! Focus on your measures! You're a witch! _Fix this_!"

"Dean," Sam said, surprisingly unruffled in Dean's meltdown. "You're right…I wish you weren't, but this guy's an idiot. He didn't know what he was doing, and he sure as hell doesn't know now."

"Then what are we supposed to do?" Dean barked. He hated to get so upset at Sam, but he was no longer to take out his aggression on Nash here. He could have broken his neck and even further diminished their chances of ever setting things right again.

"A witch did this, Dean. A stupid witch. To fix it, we may need a clever witch."

"Who?" Dean asked, figuring Sam had someone in mind, when Nash suddenly blurted out: "NO! No, not her, please, don't take us back to her."

"If it's the only way we're gonna fix this mess you made, then yeah, her."

" _Who_?" Dean queried again.

Sam stood up straight, meeting solemn eyes with Dean. "Rowena. Crowley's mother. She's one of the most powerful witches in the world."

"She will _kill_ us for rebelling against her," Nash said, stumbling over his words like a drunkard. "Please, I beg you, please, anything but that, don't make us go back to her! She'll kill us!" His hands swished from behind his back to right in front of him. Sam flinched. Dean took it as a sign he was about to cast another spell. Before he could utter one more word, Dean lifted his leg and booted Nash in the head. His body buckled, smacking against the stone floor of the alley.

"Sorry," Dean muttered. "Foot slipped."

Sam shook his head, but he didn't seem dismayed by Dean's action.

"So let me get this straight. You're telling me we had a witch on speed dial this entire time, and we didn't consider her first to reverse this BS?"

"My brother and I aren't exactly on good terms with her."

"You're not exactly on good terms with Crowley, apparently, either, and yet here we are, working with him."

Sam nodded like there was some sense to make of it. "Once we had something he wanted, he took an interest in helping us. What we need to do is confront Rowena the way Crowley was going to do, using the rebels as a bargaining chip. She helps us reverse the spell, we hand these runts over to her."

"And she'll do what with them, exactly?"

Sam shrugged. "Justice, I guess. For their revolt. It's not our business."

"Guess not. I just want to make sure we don't overlook any possibilities. If she's all-powerful and we can't trust her, she's capable of anything. We can't have her whisk these kids away to God knows where and leave us in the dust."

"If you two Mystery Gang members are done brainstorming, I've got a solution unfolding."

The king of hell's voice behind them didn't make Dean jump quite as high this time. He was still too exasperated to perceive any emotion but that rage.

Crowley loitered in the entryway of the alley. "You've had all day to mend your little problem, and I'm tired of waiting. If you want to meet with my mother, the time is now. I've arranged for an appointment with the vixen."

"And she agreed to it?" Sam asked.

"It's just as you said, Sam I Am. Once she discovered I have a little something she has her eye on, she was more than willing to cooperate." Crowley stepped forward, eyes shifting to the ground and the fallen Nash. "What happened to the juvenile?"

"He's got a big mouth that's full of nothing useful," Dean said.

"Where are the others?" Sam quizzed.

"Somewhere safe. Trust me on this, I've got a plan. Rowena doesn't have a chance of double-crossing us and stealing them away before she's heard our terms."

Dean still wasn't sure what Crowley's "terms" were with the witch, but he was set on his own. He needed to get home. He was starting to dread what Owens's scheme was in reacquiring his title belt. He sensed Winchester was in trouble. Even worse, that Roman might have been in the line of fire.

Sam looked to Dean. Dean hadn't a choice but to trust Sam. Sam seemed to have no choice but to trust Crowley.

"Right, then," Crowley said. "I take it by your longing stares that we're all set."

Dean blinked, and in the next moment he was somewhere completely different than the murky alley.

Somewhere warm. Indoors. Homely, sort of. The air was fresh and still. A fireplace crackled and popped in the corner of whatever room this was. Walls were invisible behind towering bookshelves arrayed side-by-side on all four sides of the room.

Dean, still standing beside Sam as he'd been in the alley, turned with the Winchester in synchronization. Centered in the embellished, cozy chamber was a long oak desk. Sitting on the other side was an older woman, bony, with fiery red hair and a smile creased on her antique face.

"Hello, boys," she greeted them. A Scottish accent hued her voice.

Dean gave Sam a look that asked a question without words. _This her_?

 _Yeah_ , Sam's face replied him.

Dean couldn't lie. For an old witch, she was a looker.

"I hear you wish to negotiate." Rowena's manicured hands were folded into one another on the table.

"Not negotiate," Sam said, taking a step forward. Dean mimicked his for-now brother. "Our conditions are pretty straightforward. We need your help…and you'll be rewarded for your assistance."

"Rewarded?" Rowena looked amused. "I think you have this backwards, laddie. Fergus informed me you've run into a couple of friends of mine. Thank you for tracking them down for me, by the by. Saved me hours of work."

Crowley was perched in the corner behind the Winchesters, looming as a shadow, not taking part in the conversation on either side. Watching it all go down.

"Yeah, well, before you go all Law and Order on them, Rowena, we need to ask you something."

"Ah, yes. These 'conditions' you brought up. Go ahead, Samuel. I'm curious." She leaned forward, propping both elbows on the table.

"One of them cast a spell on my brother when we were closing in on them. A funky spell that…well, I'll leave the details out for now, but he can't find a way to reverse it. We were wondering if…maybe you could…take a look and see what you could do about it."

Her eyes sparkled at his appeal, in Dean's direction, as though she was trying to deduce just what was wrong with him. "Oh, so I am _very_ valuable to the two of you right now. I'm honored, really, and touched you'd reduce yourself to this level of humility. Asking me for my help, in spite of our gloomy past. It makes me feel all _warm_ inside."

Sam huffed. "Like I said, straightforward. Help us reverse the spell, and you can have the witches. All of them."

Nash hadn't seemed to travel with them in the lightning quick-travel to this place. Dean couldn't see him anywhere. Crowley must have stashed him away with the other captives. He hoped Crowley was honest when he said they were "somewhere safe."

Rowena rapped her long nails against the table. "Tell me, first. How many witches did you manage to wrangle up this morning?"

"Five."

She inspected one of these polished nails now. "And is that counting the ones Fergus said Dean here 'offed' earlier?"

Sam glared in Crowley's direction, displeased he'd revealed this information. He shrugged impishly. He must have been "Fergus."

"Yes," Sam said, facing Rowena again.

Dean felt so out of the loop.

Rowena clicked her tongue. "I see. The reason I ask is because…I confess, you're very valuable to me right now as well. You see, it wasn't just those five _barras_ that revolted against the order of the Mega Coven. There were seventeen of them, total."

"Seventeen?" Dean voiced for the first time since arriving here—magically.

Rowena nodded. "And the two of you did such an _outstanding_ job apprehending over a fourth of them—supposedly—I figured you might be able to round up the rest without any trouble." She grinned like the deal was sealed right away after that.

"Look, I don't care about the rest!" Sam exclaimed. "I've got who I have and that's all I can offer. We're not going on a wild goose chase across the country to track down _your_ problem children. You wanna hire a PI? Consult the incubus behind me."

"No need for name-calling," Crowley spoke for his first time.

"We have four deficient witches detained, Rowena. If you want them, they're yours—if you help us reverse this spell. Otherwise, forget it." Sam pressed two hands on the table, defiant. "We'll wring the answers out of them somehow."

Dean was impressed with his brazenness.

Rowena raised to her feet, clicking her tongue. "Dear me. And here I thought I wouldn't have to resort to my backup plan."

She wandered gracefully towards the back of the room, situating her hand on a bronze knob appended to a small door. "Would you like to see what's behind door number one?"

Dean and Sam glanced at one another, unsure what to expect. Dean especially.

At their silence, Rowena twisted the knob and drew the door open. "Ta-da!" she declared.

It was a narrow closet, and taking up most of the confined space inside was a man bound with nylon rope by his wrists and ankles to a steel chair. He was dressed in a long trench coat stained with dirt and blood, and both eyes were swollen in purple clouds. A delicate scarf gagged him, fastened securely around his head.

"Cas!" Sam shouted.

Dean blinked. It was a miserable sight, but it didn't incense him as badly as it did Sam. He had no idea who this guy was. Cas, apparently.

Crowley pulled a whistle through his lips. "Wow. I didn't see that one coming, to be honest."

"Let him go, Rowena," Sam snarled. Dean could tell he was itching to jump, spring at this bitch, terrorize her, give her hell for kidnapping…whoever the hell Cas was. He obviously meant something to Sam, and probably Dean as well. But Sam refrained. He couldn't risk Cas's safety like that.

"That's better," Rowena said. She inched closer and closer to Cas, who struggled to breathe through his unbearable gag, dark eyes glowering at the woman responsible for his condition. "As soon as I heard Fergus was in contact with the Winchesters regarding my pets, I just knew Cassie here would want in on the fun." She scratched her nails through his disheveled hair, then swatted his cheek with the back of her hand. "Now. About my conditions."

The once-impudent Sam now sulked in rout. "Let me guess…you want us to round up your band…bring 'em all in…or else—"

"Or else sweet Castiel's day will go from bad to worse."

She drew something from a fold in her opulent purple dress. Dean caught the glint off a long, polished blade.

"Where did you get that?" Sam grilled.

"You've got your connections on the other side, and I've got mine." She ever so gently trawled the blade over Cas's jawline, past his cheekbone and rested the tip of the knife millimeters beneath his eye. As grunted and failed to wrench away from her silent threat.

It sent Sam over the edge. "Stop!" he cried out, putting two hands in the air. "Stop, stop, stop. Don't." With another breath in, he gave in. "Alright. We'll do it."

Rowena's grin was brilliant. "I knew you could see reason, Samuel. You're much smarter than most people give you credit for." She veered her gaze to Dean next, expression mimicking that of an inquisitive puppy. "What spell did you say was cast upon your brother?" She was staring at Dean, but her question was for Sam.

"I don't know what the spell is, Rowena. That's why we came to you in the first place," Sam spat.

She was unfazed by his attitude. She drew the knife away from Cas's face. He entreated Dean with his eyes.

Rowena steadily approached Dean. If he wasn't so sure she could break his neck with the snap of her fingers, he'd Dirty Deeds her so quick to this floor… "He's reacting _much_ , much more mildly to his angel in distress than he should be…so my presumption is, his memory's been wiped clean and he has no idea who Castiel is…his soul's been taken and he lacks the ability to give a damn about anyone and anything…or this is _not_ Dean Winchester."

Dean bore his eyes into the bitch's. "It doesn't matter who I am. What matters is restoring _everything_ to order. So fine, we'll go on this little scavenger hunt for your lazy ass. But as soon as we get back, you set Cas free, and you leave me the hell alone forever. Oh, and if you hurt Cas again, or lay a hand on me _or_ my brother?" He wagged a finger between Sam and himself. "I'll kill you."

Rowena's lips coiled into a smirk. "It's actually sort of hard to tell if this is Dean Winchester or not. But a deal's a deal, boys, is it not?" She looked to Sam, who nodded his head with the utmost reluctance.

"Then let the games begin."

All Dean could remember before the great flash was her hand reaching for his head.

In the next blink, he and Sam were both back in the riled alley, sprawled on the ground like they'd been beaten and left for dead.

Dean rolled onto his side. Sam was pulling himself up, pressing against the wall for support.

"Those bastards have gotta stop doing that," Dean said, touching a hand to his muzzy forehead. Then he realized he was wearing a watch that hadn't been on his wrist before. He studied the watch and realized it was a timer, not a clock. A timer that was counting down from 12:00:00 in green numbers.

"What the hell is this?" Dean asked. He turned his arm to present the finding to Sam.

"Maybe…Rowena put it there?" Sam guessed, grimacing. Pain of some kind was holding him to the ground. "To time us…getting all the witches gathered…"

"Twelve hours," Dean grunted, noting the dwindling countdown. "This is just…awesome."


	10. Chapter 10: Bombshell

_**Extensive apologies for my absence. Life keeps getting in the way. But here I am to bring you more of this crossover. Dean Winchester's up against more than he might be able to handle, both with the revelation of Rowena's actions, and attending Smackdown where he's got the Authority on his back with some bad news. Enjoy~**_

* * *

It was easier to list off what didn't hurt: his pride.

Everything else? Down for the count.

Dean used Roman as a crutch for a majority of the walk from the car to the hotel. Roman didn't seem to mind. His weight held Dean steady across the lobby, in the elevator, and down the hall, where Roman wished Dean goodnight.

"You don't wanna hang out for a while?" Dean asked, figuring that's the sort of thing Reigns and Ambrose would do after Raw. Close as they were.

"I would, but we should both get some sleep," Roman said, almost like he was apologetic. "Gotta be up early tomorrow."

"You're kidding, right?" Dean groaned. "Where to now?"

"Fort Lauderdale." Roman cocked his head. "For Smackdown?"

 _What the hell is a Smackdown_? "Oh, right, right. Sorry. Head's still catching up with my body." It was amazing how easily lying came to Dean. It was like a second language.

"Do you _need_ me to stay a while? Make sure you get in okay?" Roman offered.

Dean was flattered, but he needed to touch base with Sam soon. Something that should have been done with Roman out of hearing range, now that he thought about it. "Eh, that's alright. I'll soak my muscles and get to bed here soon. Thanks, though."

"Of course, Dean. 'Night."

"Hey, Roman?" Dean asked before Roman turned away. "Uh, this might sound a little crazy coming from me…"

"You're the lunatic fringe, _everything_ sounds crazy coming from you," Roman teased.

 _Heh heh heh heh heh_. Even his inner voice was sarcastic. "Anyway, uh…Dean Ambrose is really lucky to have someone like you to look out for him all the time. Makes a guy feel…pretty good."

Roman smiled. Dean would admit it: he was a handsome chap. "Well," Roman said, "Dean Ambrose is pretty good at making me—er, Roman Reigns, feel the same way."

"Ah, it's nothing." Ambrose deserved to hear this. Dean wished he had a way to record this encounter.

Roman opened his strong arms, and Dean forced himself to be comfortable with hugging anyone else besides Sam and Castiel. Roman's firm grip made his muscles ache, but he felt the sincerity. Roman was a good guy. A wonderful friend to Ambrose.

"I'm proud of you," Roman said. Out of the hug, he tapped the championship belt on Dean's shoulder.

"Thanks. I'm proud of me, too."

It wasn't fair that Winchester was on the receiving end of love and affection not meant for him.

These two needed to reunite.

Sam needed to work fast.

"Good night, Roman."

"'Night, Dean."

Dean unlocked his hotel room and moved inside. With a grunt he stripped of his ragged muscle shirt and blue jeans—Dean assumed it was more comfortable to wrestle in anything _but_ jeans, but Ambrose had no other types of pants packed away in his suitcases—and closed himself off in the bathroom. He filled the round marble tub with water that nearly scalded him. Oh, this was going to feel good. He couldn't remember the last time he took a bath.

Dean gradually lowered his bruised, throbbing body into the water. What started as mild discomfort because of the heat of the water softened into reprieve from neck to toes, and he groaned aloud. His eyes buttoned themselves closed, and in a delicious place between sleep and awakening, Dean Winchester was finally able to relax in God knew how many months. How many _years_.

Too bad it was in someone else's body. Living someone else's life.

And in this other life, just like his own, he had to work hard through some shitty times to _get_ to relax.

His respect for Ambrose had gone up. Several notches.

A loud vibration brought him back to mindfulness. It was his phone, ringing on the floor on top of a hand towel. Dean touched his fingers dry on the towel, placed there for that purpose, then answered the call. "Hello?"

"Hey, Winchester."

He'd never get used to the sound of his own voice on the other end. He hoped to God it was something he'd never _have_ to get used to. "Hey, Ambrose. Did you catch the match yet?"

"No. Sam and I have been running around all night."

Dean yawned. "Any luck with Potter and the rest of his puppet pals?"

"No—what? No, listen, something's come up and Sam felt you should know about it."

"Okay. Lay it on me."

"So you know that redheaded bitch that I guess you and Sam aren't on good terms with?"

"Rowena?"

"Yeah, you know the one. Anyway, uh…she's set some terms for us to follow. Basically, Nash and his crew aren't the only ones who mutinied. There's actually twelve more, and Rowena wants us to find them all."

"Why would you waste your time with that?" Surely there were other ways to reverse this spell than to resort to asking Rowena for help, right? What was Sam thinking?

Unless she managed to get in contact with him first…for whatever reason…

"Because…" Ambrose's voice tapered off.

"Because…?" Dean encouraged.

"I don't want him to worry."

The words were obviously not intended for Dean. "Dammit, Ambrose, what is it?"

"Dean," Ambrose soughed, "Rowena kidnapped Cas. Is that his name? Castiel?"

Warm as the water was swathing Dean's aching body, he suddenly went numb. Cold. Stiff as the dead. "Wh—what?"

"She's holding Castiel hostage, and if we don't—"

Dean shoved out of the water, ejecting a splash onto the tile floor. "How the hell did she get him? How did that bitch overpower Cas?"

"I don't know, Dean, I'm still trying to figure out how your world works. She had him tied to a chair, and I guess she had this knife that hurts angels, from what Sam was telling me—"

"Son of a bitch." Dean nearly slipped on the wet floor in a fall that would have shattered his mandible against the bathtub's edge. "How long do you have?"

"Twelve hours…to start. It's been about thirty minutes. We've been hauling ass to this place Nash promises the witches have been meeting out at lately. He's been pretty obliging, lucky for us."

"Fantastic. Where are you?" Dean scraped a towel over his legs and stomach, then struggled to hop back into the dirty jeans. For such a brawny guy, Ambrose's jeans sure were slender.

"Just outside Bangor. First place we're hitting up is this vacated Safeway. It's down the street from a library where these dumb kids checked out a bunch of books on witchcraft."

Details were unimportant to Dean. "Alright, I'll leave the hotel and see if I can get a car or something, drive out there. Ain't nobody getting me on a plane again—"

"Dean, no."

"What the hell do you mean, 'Dean, no'? Cas is in trouble, and I want in on this. I'll send Rowena to a place that makes hell look like Valhalla for what she did—"

"Dean!" Ambrose shouted. "I did _not_ call you to get you on board with us. You have your own mission where you are, in _my_ life. You've got the Intercontinental Championship. And considering how you got the damn thing, you gotta make sure nothing bad happens to me or to Roman or—"

"Roman's a pretty buff guy, right? Does he really need me sticking to his side like some kind of sidekick? Is he not a competent fighter?" Dean wished he could take the words back. He didn't mean it. He had nothing against Roman. He liked the guy. But Castiel was in trouble and if anything happened to him when Dean could have prevented it otherwise…

He had enough trouble sleeping at night. He didn't need yet another reason to hate himself.

"Castiel's important to you, right, Dean?" Ambrose asked, calmer now.

"Of course. He's…he's my…" No number of words in the English language could accurately sum up what Castiel meant to Dean. "Yes. He is."

"Roman's important to me, too. So's the title. So is everything that you've got going for _me_ , right now. And just as I'm _hoping_ you trust _me_ to make things right in your world…Dean, please." Dean hated the sound of his own voice breaking. "I need you to stay there. I trust you, and I don't trust people too easily."

"I don't, either. But right now, neither of us really have a choice."

"Exactly."

"Let me see that," came Sam's muted voice, followed by a declaration at full volume: "Dean. Hey. It's me. Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have had him tell you about Cas."

"Because keeping stuff from each other works out well for us, doesn't it?" _Shut your mouth, Dean, don't take anything out on your little brother_.

"But Dean, Ambrose is right. We've got this. We've already got a lead, and like he said, Nash is cooperating with us so far. We're going to get those witches, and we'll save Castiel."

Oh, Sam. Ever the optimist. Dean kneaded the wrinkles between his eyebrows. His head was killing him, a pain the bath might not have been able to alleviate. "Okay. Fine. But you keep me updated, got it? I want to know everything you're up to."

"You've got it."

"Guess I'm stuck a while longer here," Dean said with a sigh.

"Hey, you're a champion. Enjoy it while it lasts."

"While it lasts?" came Ambrose's voice behind Sam's. "Yeah, for _him_ , in my bod. Then we'll switch back and _I'll_ be the champion, 'cause there's no way it's only lasting a little while. Especially against Owens."

Ambrose must have been an optimist, too. That or Sam was rubbing off on him. "Alright. Keep in touch. Oh, and Ambrose?"

"Yeah?" Ambrose returned to the phone.

"What the hell is a Smackdown?"

"Another weekly WWE program. Tapes on Tuesdays, airs on Thursdays. So whatever you do, don't leak what happens to social media."

"Whoa, whoa, you're telling me I might have to fight _again_? So soon?"

"Welcome to my life, Dean Winchester."

The call ended.

Dean stood in the bathroom, still partially dripping from his sudden retreat from the tub. Water particles clung to his skin, chilling him. He stared himself—Ambrose's self—down in the mirror.

This was nuts.

Dean returned to the water. Soon he'd go to bed. Long day ahead, he supposed, no matter whose life he was living.

The respect for Dean Ambrose was thriving now.

* * *

He couldn't sleep.

Tried to. But didn't.

Laid in bed for hours, thinking, praying, wondering, hoping.

It wasn't like Dean Winchester to ever hope. Just do. Do or cope with whatever happened anyway.

But he hoped that night, more than he'd ever hoped for anything before, that Castiel would be alright.

Sam would be alright.

And even Ambrose would get out of this unharmed and protected. For Roman's sake.

He was counting on Sam to be the hero this time.

The pain settled in each muscle overnight. Physical anguish he'd never felt before. They were on fire by dawn.

Slivers of sunlight cut through the space between the curtains and the windows. Figuring Roman would be here soon anyway, Dean got up. He checked his phone. No missed calls from Sam or Ambrose. He tried both numbers. No answer.

Weird.

 _Don't worry yet. There's still time_.

Dean helped himself to a long, hot shower for the hell of it. Dressed in jeans that closely resembled the pair he wore the night before, matching it with a white muscle shirt.

Funny how similarly Ambrose and Winchester dressed, only instead of these tank tops, Dean wore his plaid shirts. Then the pants, boots, even the leather jacket: all common.

He combed out long blond hair he still wasn't used to. Touched his face, examining the bruises and swollen red patches of skin from last night. This kind of condition and he was expected to fight again?

Dean prayed again. He was doing that a lot lately—again, unusual of him. No Owens tonight, please. Anyone but him.

Dressed and packed, he was ready but had no idea where to find Roman, so he waited for Reigns to pick him up from his room. They'd be driving to Fort Lauderdale. It would take less than an hour to get to the BB&T Center.

"What do you think we're up against tonight?" Dean asked, riding shotgun. He missed driving. He missed his Impala. He hated not knowing where she was, too, what kind of condition she was in.

"Well, don't be surprised if Owens targets you," Roman answered, head swiveling from left to right and left again before turning out of the hotel parking lot.

"I broke his fingers. He should stay out of my way."

Roman laughed softly. "You think a broken finger or two will stop Kevin Owens? He's no Luis Urive."

"Who?"

"You don't remember?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, never mind."

"I thought you said I might have rendered his hand useless," Dean stated.

"Maybe you did. There's no telling. But if it's anything less than _total_ immobility, he might not care what the trainers say. I'm just warning you to watch your back. He's not easily stopped."

"I'm starting to learn that. What about you?" Dean looked over at Roman. "You're, uh, defending your title or whatever tonight, right?"

"Maybe. Wouldn't surprise me. The Authority really hates this belt on my shoulder. They do everything they can to tear it away from me and keep me down."

From his backstage viewing the night before, Dean had determined the Authority consisted of a power-hungry husband and wife, Hunter and Stephanie something, and nobody liked them. They didn't do much to change that shared opinion, either. Dean had so many questions— _what do they have against you? How'd you get the belt, anyway? Who's your biggest rival in the company_?—but none that Ambrose would ask. Soberly. Logically.

Instead Dean bobbed his head and said, "They're a bunch of dicks."

Roman laughed, harder this time. "I'll say."

Dean checked his phone. No texts. No missed calls or voicemails. He returned the device to his pocket, trying not to panic.

"Well, don't worry about it, Roman. Whatever they've got planned for you, you'll overcome. I've got your back."

"Thanks, Dean."

Dean stared out the window, at the endless highway, white stripes zipping by, rushing cars with texting drivers. This was his familiar place. This felt a lot like home.

God, did he miss Sam, though.

He closed his eyes and banished all thoughts of Sam, Castiel, Rowena, everything that was his _true_ home.

"Music?" Dean said, reaching for the radio before Roman gave an answer. It was annoyingly quiet without something to talk about. He scanned through each radio station until a familiar tune caught his attention. "Oh, hell yeah," he said, twisting the volume knob up.

"What is this song?"

"Dude, it's Asia. Who hasn't heard this song?"

"Not me. I didn't even know you listened to Asia."

Dean mouthed the words to "Heat of the Moment", rocking his head back and forth to the eighties jam. Roman gave him a look that reminded Dean of a bemused Sam and laughed.

"Hey, let me ask you something," Dean said, at last coming up with a question that might have been expected of Ambrose to ask Roman. "Where do you think we go from here? You and me? Well, I mean, I hope you don't go anywhere away from that title belt, 'cause it's a big deal but…thinking about where we've been and where we are now. Are you happy? Or could you be happier somehow?"

"First off, I like where I am a lot. Being called World Heavyweight Champion? Never gets old. Yeah, I'm happy. Real happy. I made it this far and I have no intention of going back or letting go. And as far as you're concerned, being the Intercontinental Champion could be good for you. You don't have to risk anything; it might be okay for you to sit back and wait for the next challenger to step up. Defend your title. And then wait for the next guy."

"So I should just stay where I am and get used to it."

"I mean, if you're itching for more than the IC belt, yeah. Hell, if you get bored, maybe go after Alberto Del Rio's United States Championship, too. Nobody likes seeing that belt on him."

"I know what you mean." He didn't. "Two titles at once, though? Now that's a challenge."

"Rollins did it. Don't see why you couldn't."

Rollins. Dean remembered Ambrose mentioning him—Seth Rollins, was that it? A former brother. He wondered what the history was there. "Roman, do you really believe I can do it?"

"Of course, Dean. I believe in you with all my heart."

"Sometimes I don't believe in myself. Some days I choose not to, because I feel I've let myself down too much to start all over. But I want you to know, the days I doubt myself, that's not who I really am. I guess you know that. But some days, it's just…nice to be reminded. It's nice to know there's someone there, encouraging me."

"I get what you mean. But I'm not gonna let you give up on you. No matter what."

"And I won't let you give up on you either, Roman. So if there's ever a day I'm complaining or groaning or bitching about not getting the job done, remind me of this conversation. Remind me of what you are to me. Probably the best friend this guy's ever had. So whatever we're doing, let's keep on going. Wherever we go, let's hold the hell on."

This was the least Dean could do for Ambrose. Dean Ambrose deserved Roman Reigns's friendship. He deserved a guy who had his back no matter what. And this couldn't be jeopardized no matter what anyone said.

Dean had to protect Roman. For Ambrose.

"Where'd the sap come from?" Roman said, grinning. He lifted a fist and tapped Dean's chin. "You never talk like this. Not that it doesn't mean something to me, but…"

No, he didn't ever talk like this. It wasn't like him to open up, spew a bunch of mawkish crap, even with his own brother. But hell—he wasn't Dean Winchester right now. Time to explore new levels of mentality. "Eh, I just think it's best for our relationship if we had more talks like this. I don't wanna lose you the way I lost"—did he dare? did he even know what he was talking about? how was someone considered a "former brother" anything good?—"Rollins."

Roman's voice went dark and sincere. He put a hand on Dean's knee, briefly. "You won't. Trust me, Dean, if you don't believe anything else I say in your life, believe that. You _won't_ lose me like we lost him."

 _We_? "Good. I like the sound of that."

Dean returned his attention to the music for the time being. He felt better, securing Ambrose's relationship with Reigns the way he'd secure his hold on this title.

If he was here long enough, maybe he'd score that United States title, too.

It wasn't necessary, but he wanted to. For Ambrose.

He was a fighter back home and he was a fighter here. One way, and another, and another.

* * *

Last night, Dean hadn't done much in front of a crowd.

Sure, he'd fought Kevin Owens and earned himself a title belt, but that was it. In and out. No conversation.

Now, Roman was telling him he'd have to _talk_ in front of _all these people_. Dean could sense how massive the crowd was even backstage at the BB &T Center. Demons didn't scare him. Ghosts didn't rattle his bones. Stumbling over words and making himself—Ambrose—out to be a total klutz, though? _That_ made him a little nervous.

"What the hell am I gonna say?" Dean asked him, shifting back and forth from one foot to the other. "I mean…I don't really have anything _to_ say. I think I spoke loud and clear last night by my actions, know what I mean?" A decent cover.

"I know. But if Owens is all talk, then we have to step up to that, too."

Dean was trying to compose himself. Sam hadn't answered his phone all day, nor had Ambrose answered "his." His concern was clawing through him, bottom to top, like a fatal disease. What about Cas? Where the hell were they? The twelve hours were up, were they not? What the hell was going on? Why wasn't he getting answers?

 _Trust your brother_ , he had to tell himself. _Focus on this. Power through it. Then try again. If I can't get ahold of him after this, then screw it: I'm tracking down his cell and finding him myself. Sorry, Roman, but this is important to me, too_.

Kevin Owens was in the ring now, kicking off the program. He'd been going on and on—and on and on—for nearly ten minutes now about how _unfair_ last night was. How Dean Ambrose was a menace, a fink, a child who needed to be taught a lesson by an adult. Like he was such an _adult_ himself. Please. He sounded ready to burst into tears.

"I've had enough of his voice," Dean muttered.

"Me too. Wanna go crash a party?" Roman pressed a microphone against Dean's chest. Dean wrapped his fingers around it, staring down at the device like it was the technology of extraterrestrials.

 _Part of the life, Winchester, get on with it_.

"Let's do it," Dean said.

"Alright, my boy."

Roman's entrance music hit, and Kevin Owens looked sour. He aimed his smug, screwy face into the crowd, staring Roman and Dean down as they shuffled down a staircase. Fans held out their hands and phones for high-fives and selfies. Dean touched many of them and posed for a couple of pictures, hoping he made someone's day that way. Strange how Roman emerged from way up here and not the ramp down below, where Dean had been the night before. Where all the other superstars came from.

Owens growled, baring his teeth as Roman and Dean stepped into the ring. Dean kept close to Roman's side, even as Roman paced. Owens scratched his bearded chin, then jammed a finger Dean's way.

"That's _my_ title!" he said outside the microphone.

Dean shook his head. "All mine, dude."

Roman lifted the microphone to his lips to talk.

Hip-hop music accompanied by a female's rhythmic voice blasted through the arena. Dean looked to Roman, who was rolling his eyes. "Perfect," Roman mumbled.

Stephanie what's-her-name appeared, triggering waves of boos throughout the crowd. She swaggered towards the ring, shaking her hips like she knew how to work a beat. Owens looked happy to see her.

"Doesn't feel too nice getting interrupted, does it, Reigns?" she asked, spearing a gaze towards Dean and Roman. "We need to talk."

Dean decided to try something. "About what? How awesome we are?" he asked, voice powerful by the aid of the mic. He was satisfied with the giggles he got as a response, few as there were. "Tell her, Roman." He nudged Roman's shoulder, the one not bearing his title belt.

"What do you want, Stephanie?" Roman asked.

Dean closed his mouth. Oh. Now was not the time for joking, he realized.

"I don't know what you were thinking last night, running off with the title like that, Ambrose," Stephanie said, taking a step towards him, then another. How she could walk in those heels was an enigma. "I thought you were past your little kleptomaniac streak after Rollins left."

Dean shrugged. "Guess I'm not." He slapped the title on his shoulder with merited pride. "You can't make me give it back. I don't care who you are." Getting used to the microphone had been surprisingly simple. He could tune out the crowd as long as he focused on how much Stephanie and Owens pissed him off.

Stephanie shrugged, palms aimed at the ceiling. "You've never respected me as your boss before, I don't see you doing it now or anytime soon. But I have to do what's best for business, no matter how the children want to play, or man the playground."

"What does this have to do with me, Steph?" Roman asked. The crowd was taken with him, enamored with everything he had to say, even if he was visibly irritated saying these things.

"Tonight, we were going to schedule a rematch between Kevin Owens and Dean Ambrose for the Intercontinental Championship. This would come a little while before Roman's defending of the World Heavyweight Championship against Sheamus."

" _Shocker_ ," Roman said.

"Yeah, freakin' typical, Stephanie," Dean said, rolling his eyes like he knew what a "shocker" this situation was. The crowd seemed to agree with them, booing, hissing.

Stephanie ignored their utterances. "But he came to me this morning with something else in mind. A change of plans."

"Because Kevin Owens is running the company now, right?" Roman asked. "Man in charge? He makes all the calls, and you _have_ to listen to him."

 _Damn_ , was he sassy. Dean had to smother a chortle. Owens just shook his head. Dean was ready to punch him out. He noticed two of Owens's fingers were wrapped up. _Let me over there and I'll finish off the others. Then they'll all match_.

Stephanie knitted her brows, but she was smiling, which wasn't a good sign. "If you want to claim you're the Intercontinental Champion, Ambrose, fine. But there's a rematch tonight. That hasn't changed. That way the _true_ champion will be revealed, no questions asked."

"Think he was already revealed last night, but go ahead," Dean said. He tapped his title again, just to get under her skin.

"Tonight will be the greatest match Smackdown has ever seen. Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose will be defending their titles together against Kevin Owens and Sheamus, in a Winners Take All Tag Team Match!"

" _What_?" Roman blurted over an extremely agitated and elated audience. Their wails hurt Dean's ears. "Is that even a real thing?"

 _Yeah, I was just about to ask that_ , Dean thought.

"It is, Roman, it's happened before and it's happening again. Tonight. Only this time, it isn't mixed." Stephanie drew nearer to Dean and Roman. "The titles will go to the team that gets the pinfall _or_ submission. Suppose Kevin Owens pins Reigns here till the count of three. Not only does Roman lose his World Heavyweight Championship, but you're _unquestionably_ stripped of the Intercontinental Title, and it goes to Owens."

"That's bullshit!" Dean cried, hands at his sides so the slur hadn't been picked up by the instrument. Nor picked up by Stephanie's sense of hearing, or concern, as she went on: "And if Dean Ambrose is in the ring with Sheamus, and Sheamus wrestlers him into the Cloverleaf, and the pain is just too much for him to bear, and he's out of Roman's reach and just can't make the tag, and it hurts so much that he just has to tap out…" Her whiny voice, tainted with high pitch and faux concern, steeped drastically as she stared into Dean's eyes. "You don't just lose your title. Roman loses his, too. You both _lose_."

"You wanna kiss me or something, Steph? Back up," Dean said. It was all he could think to say. What the hell was this? The chance to fight with Roman, sure, but…with so much on the line? _Both_ titles? Because why, Owens was a little punk and didn't want to try to handle Dean one-on-one again? He felt he couldn't do it without a buddy, Sheamus, whoever the hell that was? Probably the pasty redheaded guy Roman fought against last night…

This was so petty. So immature. Punishing Dean by throwing Roman into the mix. Knowing how to irk him, how to truly nettle him. He hated Kevin Owens. Hated him so much. More than Meg, more than Abaddon, more than Metatron…he was working his way to Ruby levels now. Though she was hard to beat on his hate list.

"This is how it's going to be. Boss's orders," Stephanie said. "That will be the main event."

This pleased the crowd.

Did none of them see what bullshit this was? Not one of them?

No. They didn't care. They just wanted a fight.

"Thank you, Stephanie, for setting things right," Owens praised her. Dean wanted to hurl. "You're _so_ good at what you do."

Stephanie beamed. She exited the ring in the same music she'd arrived with.

Dean looked to Roman. "They're serious?" he asked. "That's what's happening tonight?"

Suddenly something grabbed hold of his leg from behind and yanked hard. Dean was flat on the mat in a flash.

 _What the hell_? He rolled onto his back and found a pale, muscular superstar standing over him. Sheamus, yes, that was him, the Celtic Warrior whom Roman had beaten last night—he started kicking Dean over and over in the ribs.

Roman lunged at Sheamus and punched him in the face, sending him over the top rope. Owens was charging at Roman now while his back was turned towards Sheamus, so Dean leaped up and kicked him in the jaw. Dazed, Owens staggered backwards. Roman threw his head back, arms behind him, and let out a loud cry. Dean watched in undeniable admiration as he drilled his skull into Owens's midsection, knocking him to the floor.

Now on the other side of the ring, Sheamus plunged both arms under the bottom rope and grabbed Owens by the shirt, helping him out of the ring and out of the way of another attack. Roman ran at them, clutching the top rope and shaking it in his grip. He pointed a finger at the retreating Sheamus and screamed, "Yeah, _walk away_! We'll see you tonight."

"Kiss your titles goodbye, laddies!" Sheamus said, helping Owens recover his balance.

Dean joined Roman at his side. "STILL MINE, OWENS!" he roared, thrusting the Intercontinental Championship in the air. "AND IT'LL STILL BE MINE BY THE END OF TONIGHT!"

Owens waved a hand at him. "Screw you, Ambrose."

"That's a nice comeback, Owens, real nice."

With a sigh, he looked to Roman. "This is gonna suck, huh?"

"Probably. But we've got this."

"Hell yeah, we do."

Looked like the fight was on. Again.

And Dean was not running away.


	11. Chapter 11: The Enemy of My Enemy

"He's terrified."

"Sounds like Dean," Sam said from the passenger's seat. They'd been trading off driving shifts. Dean had to admit: this car was a smooth sailor. True vintage beauty. "He never likes for people to know it, though. He tries to hide it."

"In my body, he doesn't do a great job. I know my own voice pretty well." The last time Dean heard that sort of qualm in his inflection was the night he and Roman called out Seth Rollins on stabbing them in the back and joining the Authority. "This Cas guy's a big deal, huh?"

"Yeah." Sam stared forward, saddened by some old thought or memory. "He and Dean have a special bond. It...it can't compare to much else in the world."

"Well, except for _your_ bond with him, right? Brothers?"

Sam smiled, resonance still glum. He was concerned for Cas, too, but above all, Dean sensed he badly missed his brother. Especially living the precarious life of a professional wrestler. "Yeah. He likes me a lot, too."

"Well, Dean's putting a lot on the line for my sake, and I intend to return the favor. Cas is gonna be okay. And so are you, Sam."

"Thanks, Ambrose. Er, Dean. _Other_ Dean."

"Just Dean is fine."

"Okay, just Dean."

Dean chuckled. Sam was a dear.

He stretched a hand into the backseat and slapped Nash's leg, who spurred from what couldn't have been a pacific sleep. "Hey. Sit up. Tell me where to go next."

"Uh, what street are we on?" Nash grumbled. He took almost five minutes to sit up from a slumped position. Kid must have been wiped. Dean didn't care.

"Still on Main."

"Did you pass Chambers Street yet?"

Dean frowned at a red light though there were literally no other cars around. He nearly ran it. Why not? "No. We're at Pendleton."

"We're close. Think it's Patten, then Tibbetts, then Century, and you turn left on Chambers. It's across the way from a taco shop."

Tacos sounded wonderful. Dean realized they hadn't eaten in many, many hours. No wonder he felt so weak. It was his resolve that kept him going here through hunger, through fatigue, the way it always did. "Alright, hang tight, then."

"Where's Rebecca?" It was the question of the day. "I want to see her. Please. Can I just talk to her? So I know she's okay?"

"She's fine. Hush up."

Nash's head slumped like a dying flower. Poor sap. Must have been crazy about the broad.

"There," Sam said, lifting a hand past the intersection.

The sign posted near the street said "Safeway" but the naked exterior of the building and its neighboring former businesses simulated a ghost town. Perfect place for mischief. Dean parked the car close to the building, and he and Sam lugged the debilitated Nash from the backseat. "Faster you work, faster you're free," Dean had told him. Nash's word alone was all they had in this place.

The door was chained shut. Sam looked to Dean. "Got those pliers?"

"They won't work," Nash said between them. "It's a magic chain. Opens by spell only."

"Well then, hop to it," Dean said, bouncing in place. "Freezing my nads off out here."

" _Magicae catenam posui hic levare_."

The chains vibrated against the door, then dropped noisily to the ground like deadweight.

"What do you know?" Dean said, taking hold of Nash's arms from behind while Sam held the door open. "He _does_ knows what he's doing sometimes." He steered Nash into the building.

The air was putrid, like this was a planet that couldn't contain life on its own. The beam of Sam's flashlight shredded through the darkness. Checkout lanes were still standing with no customers nor cashiers. Aisles still divided the width of the former grocery store with nothing to sell.

"God, this is creepy as hell," Dean stated, irritating the quietude.

"Where would they be?" Sam interrogated Nash.

"If they're here, they'd be in the back. We converted the offices into bedrooms so we'd have a safe place to sleep and hide away from the mortals."

"Mortals?" Dean scoffed. " _You're_ mortals. You're nothing special."

"We're witches," Nash growled. "We have our place in the world among humans, but they don't understand us."

"Not even your fellow _witches_ understand you. That's why you went all _Breakfast Club_ and started sneaking down the halls when Vernon wasn't looking."

Sam started to laugh. "What?" Dean questioned.

"Nothing. It's just...you're really starting to sound like my brother."

Dean grinned. "Lead the way, Nash."

And he did. Sam and Dean followed Nash past the abandoned aisles towards the back of the store. Dean had taken on borderline-paranoid awareness, checking behind them every so often, eyes sifting down each foot of space all around. No tricks. No surprises. They had to be the ones in charge. The dominant force.

Nash approached a closed door and knocked five times, each rap slow and strong like it was a pattern.

Dean and Sam raised their guns.

Initially there was no answer.

But as soon as the knob twisted, Nash leaped to the side, still bound, cowering against the wall.

Dean didn't have time to wonder what the hell he was doing before the door pulled open and a female's voice screamed in the dark, " _Ventilabit aere_!"

Sam and Dean shot backwards like bullets out of a gun. Dean's skull smacked the wall, and he slumped to the floor. The flashlight and guns rattled against the hard ground. Used to more than a little roughing up, Dean pushed up to his knees and twisted his head to check on Sam, who was left disoriented on the floor.

"You really wanna play with us—!?" Dean tried, but his windpipe closed up suddenly, and he could neither speak nor take in another breath. The same gal who'd flung them across the corridor now held a hand in the air, and as she closed it into a fist, his throat was fully constricted. The darkness was soon somehow even darker.

"Good work, Nash," was the last thing he heard before succumbing to unconsciousness. Like dealing with that ghastly Braun Strowman all over again...

* * *

He had no idea what time it was when he awoke. But he felt mildly refreshed, so he must have been out a while.

Not good, considering the boys were on a timetable.

Dean lifted his head. Pain spread through his cranium, nearly knocking him right back out. He could handle it. This was the touch of a feather compared to shit he'd felt before. He blinked to adjust his focus to his surroundings.

He couldn't move. His limbs were strapped behind him.

 _Goddammit_.

Dean noticed Sam across the room, tethered in the same fashion, stretching across the tile floor. He'd yet to waken. The space was cramped, remnants of an office before its adaption to living quarters as Nash had stated. Beds lined all four walls of the tiny space, closing in whatever little room there was before the furniture was brought in. Dean felt a bit claustrophobic.

A group of teens stood in a crooked line between him and his brother—Winchester's brother. Dean counted them. Four total, if you counted the blond bastard who'd somehow concocted this ambush. He did the math in his head. There were still nine unaccounted for that Rowena was after. Assuming these were the droids she was looking for.

Dean felt they were.

 _Perfect_.

"Comfortable?" the male at the end of the line asked. Dean dubbed them to keep track without knowing their names. Larry would be the one who'd just spoken. Moe was the stocky guy next to him. Curly—she had dark curly hair, made sense in some way—was the one who'd led the barrage, knocking Sam and Dean out. Beside her stood Nash, still looking tired, yet relieved he was no longer a prisoner.

"How did this happen?" Dean groaned.

"Telepathy," Moe stated. "Some of us have mastered the art. Others are a bit behind in their lessons."

Nash must have been one of the aces. He'd managed to get into psychic contact with his buddies and warn them about the hunters in his company. No wonder he'd been so compliant with the boys: he'd led them right into a trap.

Dean realized the witches hadn't just confiscated their weapons. The watch was no longer on his wrist. He had no idea how long he and Sam had left before Rowena would...do whatever she was going to do to Cas. Hurt him? Kill him?

Dean couldn't let that happen.

"What time is it?" Dean asked.

The group traded perplexed glances which eventually all cast to Nash.

"They're trying to save some dude by turning us in to Rowena," he blabbed. "Guessing they don't have all the time in the world to get it done."

"Time's up," Curly said, one hand on her hip. "We're safe here, and they're not going anywhere."

Dean pulled against the ropes. This must have been some magic shit, too—he wasn't budging. "Look, we honestly don't care one way or another about you guys. We're not exactly Rowena's faithful servants over here. We're just doing this for our buddy."

She smiled. "Then I'm very sorry for him. But this ends here, now. After everything you've put our friends through, the damage you've done...you're lucky we don't snap your neck right here, right now."

"You won't, though," Dean dared, licking his lips. "That's not why you do this. You're not in the world of bizzaro magic to cause harm to anyone or anything, right? You may be witches, but you've got morals. From what I understand through Nash here."

Nash frowned. "But you're here to cause harm to us. You have already, and you would have again if I hadn't stopped you."

"If _we_ hadn't stopped you," Curly stated.

"Right."

"We weren't gonna come in and blow you all away!" Dean said.

"Oh? Is that why you were both armed with these fancy guns?" Curly waved a hand towards a bed, which contained everything they'd seized from the hunters: the weapons, their wallets, and the watch. Dean wished he could make out the numbers on it from here. Winchester didn't have great eyesight. "We may stand for peace unlike most of our brethren, but we know how to protect ourselves."

"It's like I told you before, bitch. Safety first. You're about defending yourselves, so are we. That's what the guns are for, dumbass. This isn't about you. This is about saving someone we know who's in trouble."

"I'd watch your language with her," Nash said. "You don't want to test her."

"Or what?" He had to find some way out of this. Or at least get one of these assholes close enough where he could take a shot with his head, his only functioning, free body part at the moment. "She gonna get in my head and screw with me the way you did?"

"Oh, this is the one you cast the spell on, Nash?" Curly asked. She glided closer to Dean, sticking her head in his face just far enough away where she could dodge a headbutt if he attempted one. She studied him in place.

"Yeah. I don't remember which spell it was, but I guess it swapped his body with someone else's."

"That so?" The story seemed to amuse her. "So who are _you_ then, honey?"

"Don't tell her—" Nash said at the same time Dean answered: "I'm Dean Ambrose, someone you don't want to test either, _honey_."

Curly blinked. She cocked her head and looked into his eyes. "Did you...did you say...Dean Ambrose?"

"Yeah?"

Her lips parted in surprise. "Shut up. There's no way you're Dean Ambrose. The WWE Superstar?"

"Yes, it's me," Dean said, about to roll his eyes—when he thought of something. "You a fan?"

"I...yeah, I am, actually. A _huge_ fan."

Nash put his hands to his face. No wonder he hadn't wanted Curly here to know his identity. She wasn't going to try to bring suffering to someone she admired.

"Wait, wait, wait," Larry said, stepping up beside Curly. "How the hell do we know this is actually Dean Ambrose? And he isn't just pulling our leg?"

"Because I'm not a mind reader," Dean stated, glaring up at Larry. "I couldn't read her thoughts and think, 'Hmm, which idol should I say I am so she'll go easy on me?' You're a dumbass, too."

Larry kicked him in the chest. Dean crumpled, folding his body up as best he could, but Larry would pay for it: Curly shoved him with impressive strength for someone her petite size.

"Okay," she huffed. "Just in case. I can find out if you're the real Dean Ambrose."

"Go for it." If escape was impossible, which down here he felt it might be, all he had to go on _now_ was trust.

She hunched down, close to him now. "WrestleMania twenty-eight."

Dean was confused, but he rolled with it. "Okay?"

"The Superstars and Raw episode to follow the event. You had a match that night. It was April 2012. Who did you fight, and who won?"

Dean had to ponder it for a moment, but it came to him in the moment. "It was JTG. And I won. Because I'm amazing. That right?"

Curly's hazel eyes sparkled with new emotion. "That's right."

"How'd _you_ remember that, though? That was a while ago."  
"I was there. I'd gone to WrestleMania, too, and that Raw. I saw it all that week." Curly stood up and faced her friends. "This is him, guys. This is the real Dean Ambrose."

"How do you know?" Moe asked, baffled.

"That match was a dark match. It didn't air on TV. Even crazy rabid fans like us would have a hard time knowing that happened." Suddenly her hands went over her mouth. Her demeanor erupted. "Dean Ambrose, my name is Macy, and it's an honor to meet you. Seriously. Like I said, I'm such a huge fan. My entire Tumblr account is dedicated to you. I run an RP account."

Dean had no idea what Tumblr was, but he nodded along with her enthusiasm.

She twisted one of her curls around her pointer finger. "I was a supporter of the Shield, devastated when Seth Rollins broke them up..."

"We all were."

"Justin here is crazy about John Cena." She squeezed Moe's arm with both hands. "He has t-shirts and wristbands and everything."

Dean almost started laughing. _Wow_. "Alright, that's cool and all, but look where we are. We have to get something figured out."

Sam groaned behind the witches. At last he was coming around.

"Sam," Dean said. "You okay?"

"I—I think so," Sam groaned. He was irritated to find himself in the bondage. Capture must have happened far too often for the fact to just irk him, not frighten him or make him panic.

"Things are getting a little better in here. Don't you worry. Turns out we got a couple wrestling fans in the house." Dean couldn't believe this was happening. This situation as a whole was challenging everything he believed in the world. At last, though, he'd received some positive, beneficial information.

"Great," Sam said. "Now what about Cas?"

"Look, Macy," Dean said. "Rowena doesn't just have our friend held prisoner. There's this other guy, Crowley, and he's got a hold of your friends, too. Rebecca something, and others."

"Rebecca got caught?" she asked, color draining from her rosy cheeks.

Nash bit his lip. "Yeah. Thanks to—"

"We're not with Rowena, Macy," Dean interjected. "Believe me. We're doing what she told us to do for Cas. This whole thing is about getting me and the guy who's in my body right now, switched back, after your buddy Nash cast that freak spell on us. That's it. That's all we want. I want to get back to wrestling, to Roman. And Sam here, he wants his friends safe."

"Someone else is in your body..." Macy said. "So whoever fought on Raw last night, that wasn't you?"

"No. Wasn't me."

"That's so weird!" she cried. "Even for me, weird. He did a good job, if it means anything. He won the title from Owens."

"Good." Dean was impatient. "Now could you please untie us so we can—"

The door slammed open.

"What the—!" Justin/Moe cried.

A blonde woman entered the room and lifted both hands in the air, one of which was clutching a long oak stick. All four witches bashed against the floor, each one taking their head in a hold, hands mashed over their ears as though to block out a nasty noise. Macy screamed, body wrenching, wanting whatever pain she was in to stop.

She twisted onto her side and flagged for help with her wide eyes.

"Hey!" Dean shouted, not knowing whether this blonde was with them or against. "What the hell are you doing?"

The stranger smiled, then reeled a hand in the air and spoke soft, dark, " _Iota unum omnes_."

Nash, Macy, Justin and...that guy Dean had dubbed Larry...disappeared. As though evaporating into an abyss.

Dean blinked. They were gone like that?

What the hell—?

"Good work, Dean Winchester," she said. With a snap of her slim fingers, Dean was freed from his bondage. He scrambled to his feet.

"Who are you?"

"Rowena sent me. You found a few more witches. She's very proud. Keep it up."

"You her lackey?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I just work for her. I'm no slave."

She snapped again. The watch lifted into the air by an invisible hold and carried over to Dean. It dropped in his waiting hand.

The clock had been reset. 12:00:00 blinked in a dim light.

"She's giving me more time?"

"You work best under pressure, but if you crack, she's out of luck. And given your circumstances, what with your angel helpless under her, your breaking point might be closer than she first guessed."

Dean glowered at her. "She doesn't know who I am. She underestimates me."

"Whoever you are, you bear weakness. And it's acceptable as long as you don't succumb to it."

The woman wandered over to Sam, squatted beside him, and ran the back of her hand over his forehead, brushing back the long brown hair.

"Get your hand off him," Dean growled. She'd freed him from nearly across the room. What was up with the touching?

She smiled, grim. "Like I said. Weakness."

 _Snap_.

Sam was freed, too.

The woman returned to her original place in the doorway. "You're doing great, lads. Keep up the good work. Dogs do work for their treats, after all."

With a dramatic wave of her hand, her form evaporated as quickly as the witches.

Dean scampered across the room to help Sam to his feet. "You okay?"

"Fine," Sam said. "Where the hell did she take the kids?"

"Probably bippity-boppity-boo'd their asses back to Rowena. Wherever she's stashing them."

"That's not good."

Dean stared at him, lips pursed, giving a nod. Nash had been their advantage in this manhunt. Without him, they had no clues, no leads, no guesses where the hell to track down and round up the rest of the youngsters.

They were screwed.


End file.
